"IT   IS    YUE-LAOU,    THE    MAKER   OF    MOONS!" 


THE  MAKER  OF  MOONS 


BY 

ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS 

Author  of  "  The  King  in  Yellow,"  "  The  Red  Republic  " 
"A  King  and  a  Few  Dukes,"  etc. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 

27   WEST  TWENTY-THIRD   STREET  24   BEDFORD   STREET,   STRAND 

Ube  fmicfcerbocfeer  press 
1902 


COPYRIGHT,  1896 

BY 
G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London 


Iknicfccrbocfter  press,  flew  JJorfc 


Mz1? 

mi 


TO  MY  FATHER 


97;SJS8!7 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE  MAKER  OF  MOONS i 

THE  SILENT  LAND 83 

THE  BI,ACK  WATER 129 

IN  THE  NAME  OF  THE  MOST  HIGH       .       .       .197 

THE  BOY'S  SISTER 229 

THE  CRIME 265 

A  PHEASANT  EVENING 305 

THE  MAN  AT  THE  NEXT  TABI^E    .        .       .        .347 


THE  MAKER  OF  MOONS 


"  I  am  myself  just  as  much  evil  as  good,  and  my  nation 
is — And  I  say  there  is  in  fact  no  evil ; 

(Or  if  there  is,  I  say  it  is  just  as  important  to  you,  to 
the  land,  or  to  me,  as  anything  else. 

****** 

Each  is  not  for  its  own  sake  ; 

I  say  the  whole  earth,  and  all  the  stars  in  the  sky,  are 

for  Religion's  sake. 

I  say  no  man  has  ever  yet  been  half  devout  enough  ; 
None  has  ever  yet  adored  or  worshipped  half  enough  ; 
None  has  begun  to  think  how  divine  he  himself  is,  and 

how  certain  the  future  is." 

WALT  WHITMAN. 


THE  MAKER  OF  MOONS. 


"  I  have  heard  what  the  Talker?  vrere  talking,— the  talk 
Of  the  beginning  and  the  endj       Vt  "-,,  >'  ;"•„ .;    , 

But  I  do  not  talk  of  the  beginning  or  the  end." 

I. 

CONCERNING  Yue-I,aou   and  the  Xin  I 
know  nothing  more  than  you  shall  know. 
I  am  miserably  anxious  to  clear  the  mat 
ter  up.     Perhaps  what   I   write   may  save    the 
United  States  Government  money  and  lives,  per 
haps  it  may  arouse  the  scientific  world  to  action  ; 
at  any  rate  it  will  put  an  end  to  the  terrible  sus 
pense  of  two  people.     Certainty  is  better  than 
suspense. 

If  the  Government  dares  to  disregard  this  warn 
ing  and  refuses  to  send  a  thoroughly  equipped 
expedition  at  once,  the  people  of  the  State  may 
take  swift  vengeance  on  the  whole  region  and 
leave  a  blackened  devastated  waste  where  to-day 
forest  and  flowering  meadow  land  border  the  lake 
in  the  Cardinal  Woods. 


2  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

You  already  know  part  of  the  story  ;  trie  New 
York  papers  have  been  full  of  alleged  details. 
This  much  is  true  :  Barris caught  the  "  Shiner," 
red  handed,  or  rather  yellow  handed,  for  his 
pockets  and  boots  and  dirty  fists  were  stuffed 
with  lumps  of  gold.  I  say  gold,  advisedly.  You 
may  call  it  what  you  please.  You  also  know  how 
Barris  was — but  unless  I  begin  at  the  beginning 
of  my  own  experiences  you  will  be  none  the  wiser 
after  all. ' 

On  f.he  third'  of  August  of  this  present  year  I 
was  standing  in  Tiffany's,  chatting  with  George 
Godfrey  of  the  designing  department.  On  the 
glass  counter  between  us  lay  a  coiled  serpent,  an 
exquisite  specimen  of  chiselled  gold. 

"No,"  replied  Godfrey  to  my  question,  "it 
is  n't  my  work  ;  I  wish  it  was.  Why,  man,  it 's  a 
masterpiece  ! ' ' 

"Whose?"  I  asked. 

"  Now  I  should  be  very  glad  to  know  also," 
said  Godfrey.  "We  bought  it  from  an  old  jay 
who  says  he  lives  in  the  country  somewhere  about 
the  Cardinal  Woods.  That  's  near  Starlit  Lake, 
I  believe " 

"  Lake  of  the  Stars  ?  "  I  suggested. 

"  Some  call  it  Starlit  Lake,— it  Js  all  the  same. 
Well,  my  rustic  Reuben  says  that  he  represents 
the  sculptor  of  this  snake  for  all  practical  and 
business  purposes.  He  got  his  price  too.  We 
hope  he  '11  bring  us  something  more.  We  have 
sold  this  already  to  the  Metropolitan  Museum." 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  3 

I  was  leaning  idly  on  the  glass  case,  watching 
the  keen  eyes  of  the  artist  in  precious  metals  as 
he  stooped  over  the  gold  serpent. 

"  A  masterpiece!"  he  muttered  to  himself, 
fondling  the  glittering  coil  ;  ' '  look  at  the  texture  ! 
whew  ! ' '  But  I  was  not  looking  at  the  serpent. 
Something  was  moving, — crawling  out  of  God 
frey's  coat  pocket, — the  pocket  nearest  to  me, — 
something  soft  and  yellow  with  crab-like  legs  all 
covered  with  coarse  yellow  hair. 

"  What  in  Heaven's  name,"  said  I,  "have  you 
got  in  your  pocket  ?  It  's  crawling  out — it 's 
trying  to  creep  up  your  coat,  Godfrey  !  " 

He  turned  quickly  and  dragged  the  creature 
out  with  his  left  hand. 

I  shrank  back  as  he  held  the  repulsive  object 
dangling  before  me,  and  he  laughed  and  placed  it 
on  the  counter. 

*  *  Did  you  ever  see  anything  like  that  ?' '  he 
demanded. 

"  No,"  said  I  truthfully,  "  and  I  hope  I  never 
shall  again.  What  is  it  ?  " 

"I  don't  know.  Ask  them  at  the  Natural 
History  Museum — they  can't  tell  you.  The 
Smithsonian  is  all  at  sea  too.  It  is,  I  believe, 
the  connecting  link  between  a  sea-urchin,  a  spider, 
and  the  devil.  It  looks  venomous  but  I  can't 
find  either  fangs  or  mouth.  Is  it  blind  ?  These 
things  may  be  eyes  but  they  look  as  if  they 
were  painted.  A  Japanese  sculptor  might  have 
produced  such  an  impossible  beast,  but  it  is  hard 


4  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

to  believe  that  God  did.  It  looks  unfinished  too. 
I  have  a  mad  idea  that  this  creature  is  only  one 
of  the  parts  of  some  larger  and  more  grotesque 
organism, — it  looks  so  lonely,  so  hopelessly 
dependent,  so  cursedly  unfinished.  I  'm  going 
to  use  it  as  a  model.  If  I  don't  out-Japanese 
the  Japs  my  name  is  n't  Godfrey." 

The  creature  was  moving  slowly  across  the 
glass  case  towards  me.  I  drew  back. 

' '  Godfrey, ' '  I  said,  ' c  I  would  execute  a  man 
who  executed  any  such  work  as  you  propose. 
What  do  you  want  to  perpetuate  such  a  reptile 
for  ?  I  can  stand  the  Japanese  grotesque  but  I 
can't  stand  that — spider —  " 

"  It's  a  crab." 

"  Crab  or  spider  or  blind-worm — ugh  !  What 
do  you  want  to  do  it  for  ?  It 's  a  nightmare — it 's 
unclean  ! ' ' 

I  hated  the  thing.  It  was  the  first  living 
creature  that  I  had  ever  hated. 

For  some  time  I  had  noticed  a  damp  acrid  odour 
in  the  air,  and  Godfrey  said  it  came  from  the  reptile. 

"  Then  kill  it  and  bury  it,"  I  said  ;  "  and  by 
the  way,  where  did  it  come  from  ?  ' ' 

"  I  don't  know  that  either,"  laughed  Godfrey  ; 
' '  I  found  it  clinging  to  the  box  that  this  gold  ser 
pent  was  brought  in.  I  suppose  my  old  Reuben 
is  responsible. ' ' 

"  If  the  Cardinal  Woods  are  the  lurking  places 
for  things  like  this,"  said  I,  "I  am  sorry  that  I 
am  going  to  the  Cardinal  Woods.  " 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  5 

"  Are  you  ?  ' '  asked  Godfrey  ;  "for  the  shoot 
ing?" 

' 'Yes,  with  Barris  and  Pierpont.  Why  don't 
you  kill  that  creature  ?  ' ' 

"  Go  off  on  your  shooting  trip,  and  let  me 
alone,"  laughed  Godfrey. 

I  shuddered  at  the  "  crab,"  and  bade  Godfrey 
good-bye  until  December. 

That  night,  Pierpont,  Barris,  and  I  sat  chatting 
in  the  smoking-car  of  the  Quebec  Kxpress  when 
the  long  train  pulled  out  of  the  Grand  Central 
Depot.  Old  David  had  gone  forward  with  the 
dogs ;  poor  things,  they  hated  to  ride  in  the  bag 
gage  car,  but  the  Quebec  and  Northern  road 
provides  no  sportsman's  cars,  and  David  and 
the  three  Gordon  setters  were  in  for  an  uncom 
fortable  night. 

Kxcept  for  Pierpont,  Barris,  and  myself,  the 
car  was  empty.  Barris,  trim,  stout,  ruddy,  and 
bronzed,  sat  drumming  on  the  window  ledge, 
puffing  a  short  fragrant  pipe.  His  gun-case  lay 
beside  him  on  the  floor. 

* '  When  /  have  white  hair  and  years  of  discre 
tion,"  said  Pierpont  languidly,  "I'll  not  flirt 
with  pretty  serving-maids  ;  will  you,  Roy  ?  ' ' 

"  No,"  said  I,  looking  at  Barris. 

"  You  mean  the  maid  with  the  cap  in  the  Pull 
man  car  ?  ' '  asked  Barris. 

"Yes,"  said  Pierpont. 

I  smiled,  for  I  had  seen  it  also. 

Barris  twisted  his  crisp  grey  moustache,  and 
yawned. 


6  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

1 '  You  children  had  better  be  toddling  off  to 
bed,"  he  said.  "That  lady's-maid  is  a  member 
of  the  Secret  Service." 

"Oh,"  said  Pierpont,  "one  of  your  col 
leagues?" 

"You  might  present  us,  you  know,"  I  said; 
"  the  journey  is  monotonous." 

Barris  had  drawn  a  telegram  from  his  pocket, 
and  as  he  sat  turning  it  over  and  over  between 
his  fingers  he  smiled.  After  a  moment  or  two  he 
handed  it  to  Pierpont  who  read  it  with  slightly 
raised  eyebrows. 

"It's  rot, — I  suppose  it's  cipher,"  he  said; 
"  I  see  it 's  signed  by  General  Drummond " 

"  Drummond,  Chief  of  the  Government  Secret 
Service,"  said  Barris. 

"  Something  interesting  ?  "  I  enquired,  lighting 
a  cigarette. 

"Something  so  interesting,"  replied  Barris, 
"  that  I  'm  going  to  look  into  it  myself " 

* '  And  break  up  our  shooting  trio ' ' 

"No.  Do  you  want  to  hear  about  it?  Do 
you  Billy  Pierpont?" 

"Yes,"  replied  that  immaculate  young  man. 

Barris  rubbed  the  amber  mouth-piece  of  his 
pipe  on  his  handkerchief,  cleared  the  stem  with  a 
bit  of  wire,  puffed  once  or  twice,  and  leaned  back 
in  his  chair. 

"  Pierpont,"  he  said,  "  do  you  remember  that 
evening  at  the  United  States  Club  when  General 
Miles,  General  Drummond,  and  I  were  examining 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  7 

that  gold  nugget  that  Captain  Mahan  had  ?  You 
examined  it  also,  I  believe.  * ' 

''I  did,"  said  Pierpont. 

"Was  it  gold?"  asked  Barns,  drumming  on 
the  window. 

"  It  was,"  replied  Pierpont. 

"I  saw  it  too,"  said  I;  "of  course,  it  was 
gold." 

"  Professor  L,a  Grange  saw  it  also,"  said  Barris  ; 
"  he  said  it  was  gold." 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Pierpont. 

"  Well,"  said  Barris,  "it  was  not  gold." 

After  a  silence  Pierpont  asked  what  tests  had 
been  made. 

"The  usual  tests,"  replied  Barris.  "The 
United  States  Mint  is  satisfied  that  it  is  gold,  so 
is  every  jeweller  who  has  seen  it.  But  it  is  not 
gold, — and  yet — it  is  gold." 

Pierpont  and  I  exchanged  glances. 

' '  Now, ' '  said  I,  ' '  for  Barris'  usual  coup-de- 
theatre  :  what  was  the  nugget  ?  ' ' 

"Practically  it  was  pure  gold;  but,"  said 
Barris,  enjoying  the  situation  intensely,  "really 
it  was  not  gold.  Pierpont,  what  is  gold  ?  " 

"  Gold  's  an  element,  a  metal — 

"Wrong  !  Billy  Pierpont,"  said  Barris  coolly. 

"  Gold  was  an  element  when  I  went  to  school," 
said  I. 

"  It  has  not  been  an  element  for  two  weeks," 
said  Barris  ;  "and,  except  General  Drummond, 
Professor  I^a  Grange,  and  myself,  you  two  young- 


8  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

sters  are  the  only  people,  except  one,  in  the  world 
who  know  it, — or  have  known  it." 

' '  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  gold  is  a  composite 
metal  ?"  said  Pierpont  slowly. 

* '  I  do.  I^a  Grange  has  made  it.  He  produced 
a  scale  of  pure  gold  day  before  yesterday.  That 
nugget  was  manufactured  gold." 

Could  Barris  be  joking?  Was  this  a  colossal 
hoax  ?  I  looked  at  Pierpont.  He  muttered 
something  about  that  settling  the  silver  question, 
and  turned  his  head  to  Barris,  but  there  was  that 
in  Barris'  face  which  forbade  jesting,  and  Pier 
pont  and  I  sat  silently  pondering. 

"  Don't  ask  me  how  it  's  made,"  said  Barris, 
quietly  ;  "  I  don't  know.  But  I  do  know  that 
somewhere  in  the  region  of  the  Cardinal  Woods 
there  is  a  gang  of  people  who  do  know  how  gold 
is  made,  and  who  make  it.  You  understand  the 
danger  this  is  to  every  civilized  nation.  It  's  got 
to  be  stopped  of  course.  Drummond  and  I  have 
decided  that  I  am  the  man  to  stop  it.  Wherever 
and  whoever  these  people  are — these  gold  makers, 
— they  must  be  caught,  every  one  of  them, — 
caught  or  shot. ' ' 

1 '  Or  shot, ' '  repeated  Pierpont,  who  was  owner 
of  the  Cross-Cut  Gold  Mine  and  found  his  income 
too  small ;  ' '  Professor  L,a  Grange  will  of  course 
be  prudent ; — science  need  not  know  things  that 
would  upset  the  world  ! ' ' 

"little  Willy,"  said  Barris  laughing,  "your 
income  is  safe." 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  9 

4<  I  suppose,"  said  I,  "  some  flaw  in  the  nugget 
gave  Professor  L,a  Grange  the  tip." 

"  Kxactly.  He  cut  the  flaw  out  before  sending 
the  nugget  to  be  tested.  He  worked  on  the  flaw 
and  separated  gold  into  its  three  elements." 

' '  He  is  a  great  man, ' '  said  Pierpont,  ' '  but  he 
will  be  the  greatest  man  in  the  world  if  he  can 
keep  his  discovery  to  himself. ' ' 

"Who?"  saidBarris. 

"  Professor  I/a  Grange." 

* '  Professor  I,a  Grange  was  shot  through  the 
heart  two  hours  ago, ' '  replied  Barris  slowly. 


II. 


WE  had  been  at  the  shooting  box  in  the 
Cardinal  Woods  five  days  when  a  tele 
gram  was  brought  to  Barris  by  a 
mounted  messenger  from  the  nearest  telegraph 
station,  Cardinal  Springs,  a  hamlet  on  the  lumber 
railroad  which  joins  the  Quebec  and  Northern  at 
Three  Rivers  Junction,  thirty  miles  below. 

Pierpont  and  I  were  sitting  out  under  the  trees, 
loading  some  special  shells  as  experiments ;  Barris 
stood  beside  us,  bronzed,  erect,  holding  his  pipe 
carefully  so  that  no  sparks  should  drift  into  our 
powder  box.  The  beat  of  hoofs  over  the  grass 
aroused  us,  and  when  the  lank  messenger  drew 
bridle  before  the  door,  Barris  stepped  forward  and 
took  the  sealed  telegram.  When  he  had  torn  it 
open  he  went  into  the  house  and  presently  re 
appeared,  reading  something  that  he  had  written. 

"  This  should  go  at  once,"  he  said,  looking  the 
messenger  full  in  the  face. 

"  At  once,  Colonel  Barris,"  replied  the  shabby 
countryman. 

Pierpont  glanced  up  and  I  smiled  at  the  mes 
senger  who  was  gathering  his  bridle  and  settling 
10 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  1 1 

himself  in  his  stirrups.  Barris  handed  him  the 
written  reply  and  nodded  good-bye  :  there  was  a 
thud  of  hoofs  on  the  greensward,  a  jingle  of  bit 
and  spur  across  the  gravel,  and  the  messenger 
was  gone.  Barris'  pipe  went  out  and  he  stepped 
to  windward  to  relight  it. 

' '  It  is  queer, ' '  said  I,  ' '  that  your  messenger — 
a  battered  native, — should  speak  like  a  Harvard 
man." 

"  He  is  a  Harvard  man,"  said  Barris. 

"  And  the  plot  thickens,"  said  Pierpont ;  "  are 
the  Cardinal  Woods  full  of  your  Secret  Service 
men,  Barris?  " 

"No,"  replied  Barris,  "  but  the  telegraph  sta 
tions  are.  How  many  ounces  of  shot  are  you 
using,  Roy  ?  ' ' 

I  told  him,  holding  up  the  adjustable  steel 
measuring  cup.  He  nodded.  After  a  moment 
or  two  he  sat  down  on  a  camp-stool  beside  us  and 
picked  up  a  crimper. 

"That  telegram  was  from  Drummond,"  he 
said  ;  ' '  the  messenger  was  one  of  my  men  as  you 
two  bright  little  boys  divined.  Pooh  !  If  he  had 
spoken  the  Cardinal  County  dialect  you  would  n't 
have  known." 

"  His  make-up  was  good,"  said  Pierpont. 

Barris  twirled  the  crimper  and  looked  at  the 
pile  of  loaded  shells.  Then  he  picked  up  one  and 
crimped  it. 

"  Let  'em  alone,"  said  Pierpont,  "you  crimp 
too  tight." 


1 2  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

* '  Does  his  little  gun  kick  when  the  shells  are 
crimped  too  tight  ?  ' '  enquired  Barris  tenderly  ; 
"well,  he  shall  crimp  his  own  shells  then, — 
where  's  his  little  man  ?  " 

"  His  little  man,"  was  a  weird  English  impor 
tation,  stiff,  very  carefully  scrubbed,  tangled  in 
his  aspirates,  named  Hewlett.  As  valet,  gilly, 
gun-bearer,  and  crimper,  he  aided  Pierpont  to 
endure  the  ennui  of  existence,  by  doing  for  him 
everything  except  breathing.  Irately,  however, 
Barris'  taunts  had  driven  Pierpont  to  do  a  few 
things  for  himself.  To  his  astonishment  he  found 
that  cleaning  his  own  gun  was  not  a  bore,  so  he 
timidly  loaded  a  shell  or  two,  was  much  pleased 
with  himself,  loaded  some  more,  crimped  them, 
and  went  to  breakfast  with  an  appetite.  So  when 
Barris  asked  where  * '  his  little  man ' '  was,  Pier 
pont  did  not  reply  but  dug  a  cupful  of  shot  from 
the  bag  and  poured  it  solemnly  into  the  half 
filled  shell. 

Old  David  came  out  with  the  dogs  and  of  course 
there  was  a  pow-wow  when  "  Voyou,"  my  Gor 
don,  wagged  his  splendid  tail  across  the  loading 
table  and  sent  a  dozen  unstopped  cartridges  roll 
ing  over  the  grass,  vomiting  powder  and  shot. 

"  Give  the  dogs  a  mile  or  two,"  said  I ;  "  we 
will  shoot  over  the  Sweet  Fern  Covert  about 
four  o'clock,  David." 

"  Two  guns,  David,"  added  Barris. 

* '  Are  you  not  going  ?  ' '  asked  Pierpont,  look 
ing  up,  as  David  disappeared  with  the  dogs. 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  1 3 

1 '  Bigger  game, ' '  said  Barris  shortly.  He 
picked  up  a  mug  of  ale  from  the  tray  which 
Hewlett  had  just  set  down  beside  us  and  took  a 
long  pull.  We  did  the  same,  silently.  Pierpont 
set  his  mug  on  the  turf  beside  him  and  returned 
to  his  loading. 

We  spoke  of  the  murder  of  Professor  I^a  Grange, 
of  how  it  had  been  concealed  by  the  authorities 
in  New  York  at  Drummond's  request,  of  the  cer 
tainty  that  it  was  one  of  the  gang  of  gold-makers 
who  had  done  it,  and  of  the  possible  alertness  of 
the  gang. 

"  Oh,  they  know  that  Drummond  will  be  after 
them  sooner  or  later,"  said  Barris,  "but  they 
don't  know  that  the  mills  of  the  gods  have  already 
begun  to  grind.  Those  smart  New  York  papers 
builded  better  than  they  knew  when  their  ferret- 
eyed  reporter  poked  his  red  nose  into  the  house 
on  58th  Street  and  sneaked  off  with  a  column  on 
his  cuffs  about  the  '  suicide '  of  Professor  I/a 
Grange.  Billy  Pierpont,  my  revolver  is  hanging 
in  your  room  ;  I  '11  take  yours  too — 

"  Help  yourself,"  said  Pierpont. 

"  I  shall  be  gone  over  night,"  continued  Barris  ; 
"  my  poncho  and  some  bread  and  meat  are  all  I 
shall  take  except  the  *  barkers. '  ' 

"  Will  they  bark  to-night  ?  "  I  asked. 

1 1  No,  I  trust  not  for  several  weeks  yet.  I  shall 
nose  about  a  bit.  Roy,  did  it  ever  strike  you  how 
queer  it  is  that  this  wonderfully  beautiful  country 
should  contain  no  inhabitants  ? ' ' 


14  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

"  It 's  like  those  splendid  stretches  of  pools  and 
rapids  which  one  finds  on  every  trout  river  and 
in  which  one  never  finds  a  fish,"  suggested 
Pierpont. 

"Exactly, — and  Heaven  alone  knows  why," 
said  Barris ;  ' '  I  suppose  this  country  is  shunned  by 
human  beings  for  the  same  mysterious  reasons." 

4  *  The  shooting  is  the  better  for  it, "  I  observed. 

1  'The  shooting  is  good,"  said  Barris,  "have 
you  noticed  the  snipe  on  the  meadow  by  the  lake  ? 
Why  it 's  brown  with  them  !  That 's  a  wonderful 
meadow. ' ' 

"It's  a  natural  one,"  said  Pierpont,  "no 
human  being  ever  cleared  that  land." 

"  Then  it 's  supernatural,"  said  Barris  ;  "  Pier 
pont,  do  you  want  to  come  with  me  ?  ' ' 

Pierpont' s  handsome  face  flushed  as  he  an 
swered  slowly,  "It's  awfully  good  of  you, — if  I 
may." 

"  Bosh,"  said  I,  'piqued  because  he  had  asked 
Pierpont,  *  *  what  use  is  little  Willy  without  his 
man?" 

"True,"  said  Barris  gravely,  "you  can't  take 
Hewlett  you  know." 

Pierpont  muttered  something  which  ended  in 
"d— n." 

"Then,"  said  I,  "there  will  be  but  one  gun 
on  the  Sweet  Fern  Covert  this  afternoon.  Very 
well,  I  wish  you  joy  of  your  cold  supper  and 
colder  bed.  Take  your  night-gown,  Willy,  and 
don't  sleep  on  the  damp  ground." 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  1 5 

"L,et  Pierpont  alone,"  retorted  Barris,  "you 
shall  go  next  time,  Roy." 

"  Oh,  all  right, — you  mean  when  there  's  shoot 
ing  going  on  ?  " 

' l  And  I  ?  "  demanded  Pierpont,  grieved. 

"  You  too,  my  son  ;  stop  quarelling  !  Will  you 
ask  Hewlett  to  pack  our  kits — lightly  mind  you, 
— no  bottles, — they  clink." 

"  My  flask  does  n't,"  said  Pierpont,  and  went 
off  to  get  ready  for  a  night's  stalking  of  dan 
gerous  men. 

"  It  is  strange,"  said  I,  "that  nobody  ever 
settles  in  this  region.  How  many  people  live  in 
Cardinal  Springs,  Barris  ? ' ' 

' '  Twenty  counting  the  telegraph  operator  and 
not  counting  the  lumbermen ;  they  are  always 
changing  and  shifting.  I  have  six  men  among 
them." 

"Where  have  you  no  men?  In  the  Four 
Hundred?" 

"  I  have  men  there  also, — chums  of  Billy's 
only  he  doesn't  know  it.  David  tells  me  that 
there  was  a  strong  flight  of  woodcock  last  night. 
You  ought  to  pick  up  some  this  afternoon." 

Then  we  chatted  about  alder-cover  and  swamp 
until  Pierpont  came  out  of  the  house  and  it  was 
time  to  part. 

"  Au  revoir,"  said  Barris,  buckling  on  his  kit, 
'*  come  along,  Pierpont,  and  don't  walk  in  the 
damp  grass." 

"  If  you  are  not  back  by  to-morrow  noon,"  said 


1 6  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

I,  "  I  will  take  Hewlett  and  David  and  hunt  you 
up.  You  say  your  course  is  due  north  ?  ' ' 

"Due  north,"  replied  Barris,  consulting  his 
compass. 

"There  is  a  trail  for  two  miles  and  a  spotted 
lead  for  two  more,"  said  Pierpont. 

"Which  we  won't  use  for  various  reasons," 
added  Barris  pleasantly  ;  "  don't  worry,  Roy,  and 
keep  your  confounded  expedition  out  of  the  way  ; 
there  's  no  danger." 

He  knew,  of  course,  what  he  was  talking  about 
and  I  held  my  peace. 

When  the  tip  end  of  Pierpont 's  shooting  coat 
had  disappeared  in  the  L,ong  Covert,  I  found  my 
self  standing  alone  with  Hewlett.  He  bore  my 
gaze  for  a  moment  and  then  politely  lowered  his 
eyes. 

"  Hewlett,"  said  I,  "  take  these  shells  and  im 
plements  to  the  gun  room,  and  drop  nothing. 
Did  Voyou  come  to  any  harm  in  the  briers  this 
morning  ? ' ' 

"  No  'arm,  Mr.  Cardenhe,  sir,"  said  Hewlett. 

"  Then  be  careful  not  to  drop  anything  else," 
said  I,  and  walked  away  leaving  him  decorously 
puzzled.  For  he  had  dropped  no  cartridges. 
Poor  Hewlett ! 


III. 


ABOUT  four  o'clock  that  afternoon  I  met 
David  and  the  dogs  at  the  spinney  which 
leads  into  the  Sweet  Fern  Covert.  The 
three  setters,  Voyou,  Gamin,  and  Mioche  were  in 
fine  feather, — David  had  killed  a  woodcock  and  a 
brace  of  grouse  over  them  that  morning, — and 
they  were  thrashing  about  the  spinney  at  short 
range  when  I  came  up,  gun  under  arm  and  pipe 
lighted. 

"  What's  the  prospect,  David,"  I  asked,  try 
ing  to  keep  my  feet  in  the  tangle  of  wagging, 
whining  dogs;  "hello,  what's  amiss  with 
Mioche?" 

"  A  brier  in  his  foot  sir  ;  I  drew  it  and  stopped 
the  wound  but  I  guess  the  gravel 's  got  in.  If 
you  have  no  objection,  sir,  I  might  take  him  back 
with  me. ' ' 

"  It 's  safer,"  I  said  ;  "  take  Gamin  too,  I  only 
want  one  dog  this  afternoon.  What  is  the  situa 
tion?" 

* '  Fair  sir  ;  the  grouse  lie  within  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  of  the  oak  second-growth.  The  woodcock 

are  mostly  on  the  alders.     I  saw  any  number  of 
2  i7 


1 8  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

snipe  on  the  meadows.  There  's  something  else 
in  by  the  lake, — I  can't  just  tell  what,  but  the 
wood-duck  set  up  a  clatter  when  I  was  in  the 
thicket  and  they  come  dashing  through  the 
wood  as  if  a  dozen  foxes  was  snappin'  at  their 
tail  feathers." 

"  Probably  a  fox,"  I  said  ;  "  leash  those  dogs, 
— they  must  learn  to  stand  it.  I  '11  be  back  by 
dinner  time." 

"There  is  one  more  thing  sir,"  said  David, 
lingering  with  his  gun  under  his  arm. 

"Well,"  said  I. 

"  I  saw  a  man  in  the  woods  by  the  Oak  Covert, 
—at  least  I  think  I  did." 

"A  lumberman? " 

"  I  think  not  sir — at  least, — do  they  have 
Chinamen  among  them  ?  " 

"  Chinese  ?  No.  You  did  n't  see  a  Chinaman 
in  the  woods  here  ?  ' ' 

"  I — I  think  I  did  sir, — I  can't  say  positively. 
He  was  gone  when  I  ran  into  the  covert." 

"  Did  the  dogs  notice  it  ?  " 

' '  I  can' t  say— exactly .  They  acted  queer  like. 
Gamin  here  lay  down  an  whined — it  may  have 
been  colic — and  Mioche  whimpered, — perhaps  it 
was  the  brier." 

"And  Voyou?" 

'  *  Voyou,  he  was  most  remarkable  sir,  and  the 
hair  on  his  back  stood  up.  I  did  see  a  ground 
hog  makin'  for  a  tree  near  by." 

"Then  no  wonder  Voyou  bristled.      David, 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  1 9 

your  Chinaman  was  a  stump  or  tussock.  Take 
the  dogs  now. ' ' 

"  I  guess  it  was  sir  ;  good  afternoon  sir,"  said 
David,  and  walked  away  with  the  Gordons  leav 
ing  me  alone  with  Voyou  in  the  spinney. 

I  looked  at  the  dog  and  he  looked  at  me. 

"Voyou!" 

The  dog  sat  down  and  danced  with  his  fore 
feet,  his  beautiful  brown  eyes  sparkling. 

"  You  're  a  fraud,"  I  said  ;  "  which  shall  it  be, 
the  alders  or  the  upland  ?  Upland  ?  Good  ! — 
now  for  the  grouse, — heel,  my  friend,  and  show 
your  miraculous  self-restraint." 

Voyou  wrheeled  into  my  tracks  and  followed 
close,  nobly  refusing  to  notice  the  impudent  chip 
munks  and  the  thousand  and  one  alluring  and 
important  smells  which  an  ordinary  dog  would 
have  lost  no  time  in  investigating. 

The  brown  and  yellow  autumn  woods  were 
crisp  with  drifting  heaps  of  leaves  and  twigs  that 
crackled  under  foot  as  we  turned  from  the  spinney 
into  the  forest.  Every  silent  little  stream,  hurry 
ing  toward  the  lake  was  gay  with  painted  leaves 
afloat,  scarlet  maple  or  yellow  oak.  Spots  of  sun 
light  fell  upon  the  pools,  searching  the  brown 
depths,  illuminating  the  gravel  bottom  where 
shoals  of  minnows  swam  to  and  fro,  and  to  and 
fro  again,  busy  with  the  purpose  of  their  little 
lives.  The  crickets  were  chirping  in  the  long 
brittle  grass  on  the  edge  of  the  woods,  but  we  left 
them  far  behind  in  the  silence  of  the  deeper  forest. 


2O  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

((  Now  !  "  said  I  to  Voyou. 

The  dog  sprang  to  the  front,  circled  once,  zig 
zagged  through  the  ferns  around  us  and,  all  in  a 
moment,  stiffened  stock  still,  rigid  as  sculptured 
bronze.  I  stepped  forward,  raising  my  gun,  two 
paces,  three  paces,  ten  perhaps,  before  a  great 
cock-grouse  blundered  up  from  the  brake  and 
burst  through  the  thicket  fringe  toward  the 
deeper  growth.  There  was  a  flash  and  puff  from 
my  gun,  a  crash  of  echoes  among  the  low  wooded 
cliffs,  and  through  the  faint  veil  of  smoke  some 
thing  dark  dropped  from  mid-air  amid  a  cloud  of 
feathers,  brown  as  the  brown  leaves  under  foot. 

"  Fetch!" 

Up  from  the  ground  sprang  Voyou,  and  in  a 
moment  he  came  galloping  back,  neck  arched, 
tail  stiff  but  waving,  holding  tenderly  in  his  pink 
mouth  a  mass  of  mottled  bronzed  feathers. 
Very  gravely  he  laid  the  bird  at  my  feet  and 
crouched  close  beside  it,  his  silky  ears  across  his 
paws,  his  muzzle  on  the  ground. 

I  dropped  the  grouse  into  my  pocket,  held  for 
a  moment  a  silent  caressing  communion  with 
Voyou,  then  swung  my  gun  under  my  arm  and 
motioned  the  dog  on. 

It  must  have  been  five  o'clock  when  I  walked 
into  a  little  opening  in  the  woods  and  sat  down  to 
breathe.  Voyou  came  and  sat  down  in  front  of  me. 

"Well?"  I  enquired. 

Voyou  gravely  presented  one  paw  which  I 
took. 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  2 1 

' '  We  will  never  get  back  in  time  for  dinner, ' ' 
said  I,  "so  we  might  as  well  take  it  easy.  It  's 
all  your  fault,  you  know.  Is  there  a  brier  in  your 
foot? — let  's  see, — there  !  it  's  out  my  friend  and 
you  are  free  to  nose  about  and  lick  it.  If  you  loll 
your  tongue  out  you'll  get  it  all  over  twigs  and 
moss.  Can't  you  lie  down  and  try  to  pant  less? 
No,  there  is  no  use  in  snifHng  and  looking  at  that 
fern  patch,  for  we  are  going  to  smoke  a  little, 
doze  a  little,  and  go  home  by  moonlight.  Think 
what  a  big  dinner  we  will  have  !  Think  of  Hew 
lett's  despair  when  we  are  not  in  time  !  Think 
of  all  the  stories  you  will  have  to  tell  to  Gamin 
and  Mioche  !  Think  what  a  good  dog  you  have 
been  !  There — you  are  tired  old  chap  ;  take 
forty  winks  with  me." 

Voyou  was  a  little  tired.  He  stretched  out  on 
the  leaves  at  my  feet  but  whether  or  not  he  really 
slept  I  could  not  be  certain,  until  his  hind  legs 
twitched  and  I  knew  he  was  dreaming  of  mighty 
deeds. 

Now  I  may  have  taken  forty  winks,  but  the 
sun  seemed  to  be  no  lower  when  I  sat  up  and  un 
closed  my  lids.  Voyou  raised  his  head,  saw  in 
my  eyes  that  I  was  not  going  yet,  thumped  his 
tail  half  a  dozen  times  on  the  dried  leaves,  and 
settled  back  with  a  sigh. 

I  looked  lazily  around,  and  for  the  first  time 
noticed  what  a  wonderfully  beautiful  spot  I  had 
chosen  for  a  nap.  It  was  an  oval  glade  in  the 
heart  of  the  forest,  level  and  carpeted  with  green 


22  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

grass.  The  trees  that  surrounded  it  were  gigan 
tic  ;  they  formed  one  towering  circular  wall  of 
verdure,  blotting  out  all  except  the  turquoise  blue 
of  the  sky-oval  above.  And  now  I  noticed  that 
in  the  centre  of  the  greensward  lay  a  pool  of 
water,  crystal  clear,  glimmering  like  a  mirror  in 
the  meadow  grass,  beside  a  block  of  granite.  It 
scarcely  seemed  possible  that  the  symmetry  of 
tree  and  lawn  and  lucent  pool  could  have  been 
one  of  nature's  accidents.  I  had  never  before 
seen  this  glade  nor  had  I  ever  heard  it  spoken  of 
by  either  Pierpont  or  Barris.  It  was  a  marvel, 
this  diamond  clear  basin,  regular  and  graceful  as 
a  Roman  fountain,  set  in  the  gem  of  turf.  And 
these  great  trees, — they  also  belonged,  not  ia 
America  but  in  some  legend-haunted  forest  of 
France,  where  moss-grown  marbles  stand  neg 
lected  in  dim  glades,  and  the  twilight  of  the 
forest  shelters  fairies  and  slender  shapes  from 
shadow-land. 

I  lay  and  watched  the  sunlight  showering  the 
tangled  thicket  where  masses  of  crimson  Cardinal- 
flowers  glowed,  or  where  one  long  dusty  sunbeam 
tipped  the  edge  of  the  floating  leaves  in  the  pool, 
turning  them  to  palest  gilt.  There  were  birds 
too,  passing  through  the  dim  avenues  of  trees  like 
jets  of  flame, — the  gorgeous  Cardinal-Bird  in  his 
deep  stained  crimson  robe, — the  bird  that  gave  to 
the  woods,  to  the  village  fifteen  miles  away,  to 
the  whole  county,  the  name  of  Cardinal. 

I  rolled  over  on  my  back  and  looked  up  at  the 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  2  3 

sky.  How  pale, — paler  than  a  robin's  egg, — it 
was.  I  seemed  to  be  lying  at  the  bottom  of  a 
well,  walled  with  verdure,  high  towering  on  every 
side.  And,  as  I  lay,  all  about  me  the  air  became 
sweet  scented.  Sweeter  and  sweeter  and  more 
penetrating  grew  the  perfume,  and  I  wondered 
what  stray  breeze,  blowing  over  acres  of  lilies 
could  have  brought  it.  But  there  was  no  breeze  ; 
the  air  was  still.  A  gilded  fly  alighted  on  my 
hand, — a  honey-fly.  It  was  as  troubled  as  I  by 
the  scented  silence. 

Then,  behind  me,  my  dog  growled. 

I  sat  quite  still  at  first,  hardly  breathing,  but 
my  eyes  were  fixed  on  a  shape  that  moved  along 
the  edge  of  the  pool  among  the  meadow  grasses. 
The  dog  had  ceased  growling  and  was  now  star 
ing,  alert  and  trembling. 

At  last  I  rose  and  walked  rapidly  down  to  the 
pool,  my  dog  following  close  to  heel. 

The  figure,  a  woman's,  turned  slowly  toward 
us. 


IV. 


SHK  was  standing  still  when  I  approached  the 
pool.     The  forest  around  us  was  so  silent 
that  when  I  spoke  the  sound  of  my  own 
voice  startled  me. 

"No,"  she  said, — and  her  voice  was  smooth 
as  flowing  water,  ' '  I  have  not  lost  my  way.  Will 
he  come  to  me,  your  beautiful  dog  ?  ' ' 

Before  I  could  speak,  Voyou  crept  to  her  and 
laid  his  silky  head  against  her  knees. 

"  But  surely,"  said  I,  "  you  did  not  come  here 
alone." 

"  Alone  ?     I  did  come  alone." 

' '  But  the  nearest  settlement  is  Cardinal,  prob 
ably  nineteen  miles  from  where  we  are  standing." 

"  I  do  not  know  Cardinal,"  she  said. 

"  Ste.  Croix  in  Canada  is  forty  miles  at  least, — 
how  did  you  come  into  the  Cardinal  Woods  ?  "  I 
asked  amazed. 

"Into  the  woods?"  she  repeated  a  little  im 
patiently. 

"Yes." 

She  did  not  answer  at  first  but  stood  caressing 
Voyou  with  gentle  phrase  and  gesture. 
24 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  2  5 

* '  Your  beautiful  dog  I  am  fond  of,  but  I  am  not 
fond  of  being  questioned ,"  she  said  quietly.  *  *  My 
name  is  Ysonde  and  I  came  to  the  fountain  here 
to  see  your  dog. ' ' 

I  was  properly  quenched.  After  a  moment  or 
two  I  did  say  that  in  another  hour  it  would  be 
growing  dusky,  but  she  neither  replied  nor  looked 
at  me. 

"This,"  I  ventured,  "  is  a  beautiful  pool, — 
you  call  it  a  fountain, — a  delicious  fountain :  I 
have  never  before  seen  it.  It  is  hard  to  imagine 
that  nature  did  all  this." 

"Is  it?"  she  said. 

"  Don't  you  think  so  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  have  n't  thought ;  I  wish  when  you  go  you 
would  leave  me  your  dog." 

"My— my  dog?" 

"If  you  don't  mind,"  she  said  sweetly,  and 
looked  at  me  for  the  first  time  in  the  face. 

For  an  instant  our  glances  met,  then  she  grew 
grave,  and  I  saw  that  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  my 
forehead.  Suddenly  she  rose  and  drew  nearer, 
looking  intently  at  my  forehead.  There  was  a 
faint  mark  there,  a  tiny  crescent,  just  over  my 
eyebrow.  It  was  a  birthmark. 

' '  Is  that  a  scar  ?  ' '  she  demanded  drawing 
nearer. 

"  That  crescent  shaped  mark  ?    No." 

"  No?    Are  you  sure  ?  "  she  insisted. 

"Perfectly,"  I  replied,  astonished. 

"A— a  birthmark?" 


26  T/te  Maker  of  Moons. 

"  Yes,— may  I  ask  why  ?  " 

As  she  drew  away  from  me,  I  saw  that  the 
color  had  fled  from  her  cheeks.  For  a  second 
she  clasped  both  hands  over  her  eyes  as  if  to  shut 
out  my  face,  then  slowly  dropping  her  hands,  she 
sat  down  on  a  long  square  block  of  stone  which 
half  encircled  the  basin,  and  on  which  to  my 
amazement  I  saw  caning.  Voyou  went  to  her 
again  and  laid  his  head  in  her  lap. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  "  she  asked  at  length. 

"Roy  Cardenhe." 

"  Mine  is  Ysonde.  I  carved  these  dragon-flies 
on  the  stone,  these  fishes  and  shells  and  butterflies 
you  see." 

"You!  They  are  wonderfully  delicate, — but 
those  are  not  American  dragon-flies — ' ' 

' '  No — they  are  more  beautiful.  See,  I  have  my 
hammer  and  chisel  with  me." 

She  drew  from  a  queer  pouch  at  her  side  a 
small  hammer  and  chisel  and  held  them  toward 
me. 

"You  are  very  talented,"  I  said,  "where  did 
you  study  ? ' ' 

"I?  I  never  studied, — I  knew  how.  I  saw 
things  and  cut  them  out  of  stone.  Do  you  like 
them  ?  Some  time  I  will  show  you  other  things 
that  I  have  done.  If  I  had  a  great  lump  of 
bronze  I  could  make  your  dog,  beautiful  as  he  is." 

Her  hammer  fell  into  the  fountain  and  I  leaned 
over  and  plunged  my  arm  into  the  water  to 
find  it. 


Maker  of  Moons.  2  7 

"  II  is  there,  shining  <»>  tin-  sand,"  she  said, 
leaning  over  the  pool  with  me. 

"  Where,"  said  I,  looking  at  our  reflected  faces 
in  the  water.  For  it  was  only  in  the  water  that 
I  had  dared,  as  yet,  to  look  her  long  in  the  face. 

The  pool  mirrored  the  exquisite  oval  of  her 
head,  the  heavy  hair,  the  eyes.  I  heard  the 
silken  rustic-  of  her  girdle,  I  caught  the  flash  of  a 
white  arm,  and  the  hammer  was  drawn  up  drip 
ping  with  spray. 

The  troubled  surface  of  the  pool  grew  calm  and 
again  I  saw  her  eyes  reflected. 

"  I/isten,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "do  you 
think  you  will  come  again  to  my  fountain?" 

"  I  will  come,"  I  said.  My  voice  was  dull  ; 
the  noise  of  water  filled  my  ears. 

Then  a  swift  shadow  sped  across  the  pool  ;  I 
rubbed  my  eyes.  Where  her  reflected  face  had 
bent  beside  mine  there  was  nothing  mirrored  but 
the  rosy  evening  sky  with  one  pale  star  glimmer 
ing.  I  drew  myself  up  and  turned.  vShe  was 
gone.  I  saw  the  faint  star  twinkling  above  me  in 
the  afterglow,  I  saw  the  tall  trees  motionless  in 
the  still  evening  air,  I  saw  my  dog  slumbering  at 
my  feet. 

The  sweet  scent  in  the  air  had  faded,  leaving 
in  my  nostrils  the  heavy  odor  of  fern  and  forest 
mould.  A  blind  fear  seized  me,  and  I  caught  up 
my  gun  and  and  sprang  into  the  darkening  woods. 
The  dog  followed  me,  crashing  through  the  under 
growth  at  my  side.  Duller  and  duller  grew  the 


28  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

light,  but  I  strode  on,  the  sweat  pouring  from  my 
face  and  hair,  my  mind  a  chaos.  How  I  reached 
the  spinney  I  can  hardly  tell.  As  I  turned  up 
the  path  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  human  face  peer 
ing  at  me  from  the  darkening  thicket, — a  horrible 
human  face,  yellow  and  drawn  with  high-boned 
cheeks  and  narrow  eyes. 

Involuntarily  I  halted  ;  the  dog  at  my  heels 
snarled.  Then  I  sprang  straight  at  it,  flounder 
ing  blindly  through  the  thicket,  but  the  night 
had  fallen  swiftly  and  I  found  myself  panting  and 
struggling  in  a  maze  of  twisted  shrubbery  and 
twining  vines,  unable  to  see  the  very  undergrowth 
that  ensnared  me. 

It  was  a  pale  face,  and  a  scratched  one  that  I 
carried  to  a  late  dinner  that  night.  Howlett 
served  me,  dumb  reproach  in  his  eyes,  for  the  soup 
had  been  standing  and  the  grouse  was  juiceless. 

David  brought  the  dogs  in  after  they  had  had 
their  supper,  and  I  drew  my  chair  before  the 
blaze  and  set  my  ale  on  a  table  beside  me.  The 
dogs  curled  up  at  my  feet,  blinking  gravely  at  the 
sparks  that  snapped  and  flew  in  eddying  showers 
from  the  heavy  birch  logs. 

''David,"  said  I,  "did  you  say  you  saw  a 
Chinaman  today?  " 

"  I  did  sir." 

"  What  do  you  think  about  it  now  ?  " 

1 '  I  may  have  been  mistaken  sir ' ' 

"But  you  think  not.  What  sort  of  whiskey 
did  you  put  in  my  flask  today  ? ' ' 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  29 

"  The  usual  sir." 

* '  Is  there  much  gone  ?  ' ' 

"  About  three  swallows  sir,  as  usual." 

"  You  don't  suppose  there  could  have  been  any 
mistake  about  that  whiskey, — no  medicine  could 
have  gotten  into  it  for  instance." 

David  smiled  and  said,  "  No  sir." 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  I  have  had  an  extraordinary 
dream." 

When  I  said  "dream,"  I  felt  comforted  and 
reassured.  I  had  scarcely  dared  to  say  it  before, 
even  to  myself. 

"An  extraordinary  dream,"  I  repeated  ;  "  I  fell 
asleep  in  the  woods  about  five  o'clock,  in  that 
pretty  glade  where  the  fountain — I  mean  the  pool 
is.  You  know  the  place  ?  " 

"I  do  not  sir." 

I  described  it  minutely,  twice,  but  David  shook 
his  head. 

1 '  Carved  stone  did  you  say  sir  ?  I  never 
chanced  on  it.  You  don't  mean  the  New 
Spring- 

1 '  No,  no  !  This  glade  is  way  beyond  that.  Is 
it  possible  that  any  people  inhabit  the  forest  be 
tween  here  and  the  Canada  line  ?  ' ' 

* '  Nobody  short  of  Ste.  Croix  ;  at  least  I  have 
no  knowledge  of  any." 

"  Of  course,"  said  I,  "when  I  thought  I  saw  a 
Chinaman,  it  was  imagination.  Of  course  I  had 
been  more  impressed  than  I  was  aware  of  by  your 
adventure.  Of  course  you  saw  no  Chinaman, 
David." 


30  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

11  Probably  not  sir,"  replied  David  dubiously. 

I  sent  him  off  to  bed,  saying  I  should  keep  the 
dogs  with  me  all  night ;  and  when  he  was  gone, 
I  took  a  good  long  draught  of  ale,  "  just  to  shame 
the  devil,"  as  Pierpont  said,  and  lighted  a  cigar. 
Then  I  thought  of  Barris  and  Pierpont,  and  their 
cold  bed,  for  I  knew  they  would  not  dare  build  a 
fire,  and,  in  spite  of  the  hot  chimney  corner  and 
the  crackling  blaze,  I  shivered  in  sympathy. 

"  I '  11  tell  Barris  and  Pierpont  the  whole  story 
and  take  them  to  see  the  carved  stone  and  the 
fountain,"  I  thought  to  myself;  what  a  marvel 
lous  dream  it  was — Ysonde, — if  it  was  a  dream." 

Then  I  went  to  the  mirror  and  examined  the 
faint  white  mark  above  my  eyebrow. 


V. 


ABOUT  eight  o'clock  next  morning,  as  I  sat 
listlessly  eyeing  my  coffee  cup  which  Hew 
lett  was  filling,  Gamin  and  Mioche  set  up 
a  howl,  and  in  a  moment  more  I  heard  Barris' 
step  on  the  porch. 

"  Hello,  Roy,"  said  Pierpont,  stamping  into 
the  dining  room,  ' c  I  want  my  breakfast  by  jingo  ! 
Where  's  Hewlett, — none  of  your  cafe  an  lait  for 
me, — I  want  a  chop  and  some  eggs.  I^ook  at 
that  dog,  he  '11  wag  the  hinge  off  his  tail  in  a 
moment ' ' 

"  Pierpont,"  said  I,  "  this  loquacity  is  astonish 
ing  but  welcome.  Where  's  Barris?  You  are 
soaked  from  neck  to  ankle." 

Pierpont  sat  down  and  tore  off  his  stiff  muddy 
leggings. 

"  Barris  is  telephoning  to  Cardinal  Springs, — I 
believe  he  wants  some  of  his  men,  —  down  ! 
Gamin,  you  idiot !  Hewlett,  three  eggs  poached 
and  more  toast, — what  was  I  saying  ?  Oh,  about 
Barris  ;  he  's  struck  something  or  other  which  he 
hopes  will  locate  these  gold-making  fellows.  I 
had  a  jolly  time, — he  '11  tell  you  about  it." 


3  2  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

" Billy!  Billy!"  I  said  in  pleased  amaze 
ment,  * '  you  are  learning  to  talk  !  Dear  me  ! 
You  load  your  own  shells  and  you  carry  your 
own  gun  and  you  fire  it  yourself — hello  !  here  's 
Barris  all  over  mud.  You  fellows  really  ought  to 
change  your  rig — whew  !  what  a  frightful  odor  ! ' ' 

"It  's  probably  this,"  said  Barris  tossing 
something  onto  the  hearth  where  it  shuddered 
for  a  moment  and  then  began  to  writhe ;  "  I 
found  it  in  the  woods  by  the  lake.  Do  you  know 
what  it  can  be,  Roy  ?  ' ' 

To  my  disgust  I  saw  it  was  another  of  those 
spidery  wormy  crablike  creatures  that  Godfrey 
had  in  Tiffany's. 

"  I  thought  I  recognized  that  acrid  odor,"  I 
said;  "  for  the  love  of  the  Saints  take  it  away 
from  the  breakfast  table,  Barris  !  " 

"But  what  is  it?"  he  persisted,  unslinging 
his  field-glass  and  revolver. 

"I  '11  tell  you  what  I  know  after  breakfast,"  I 
replied  firmly,  * '  Hewlett,  get  a  broom  and  sweep 
that  thing  into  the  road. — what  are  you  laughing 
at,  Pierpont?" 

Hewlett  swept  the  repulsive  creature  out  and 
Harris  and  Pierpont  went  to  change  their  dew- 
soaked  clothes  for  dryer  raiment.  David  came 
to  take  the  dogs  for  an  airing  and  in  a  few  min 
utes  Barris  reappeared  and  sat  down  in  his  place 
at  the  head  cf  the  table. 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  is  there  a  story  to  tell  ?  " 

"  Yes,  not  much.     They  are  near  the  lake  on 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  33 

the  other  side  of  the  woods, — I  mean  these  gold- 
makers.  I  shall  collar  one  of  them  this  evening. 
I  haven't  located  the  main  gang  with  any  cer 
tainty, — shove  the  toast  rack  this  way  will  you, 
Roy, — no,  I  am  not  at  all  certain,  but  I  've  nailed 
one  anyway.  Pierpont  was  a  great  help,  really, 
— and,  what  do  you  think,  Roy  ?  He  wants  to 
join  the  Secret  Service  !  " 

"  I4ttle  Willy  !" 

"  Exactly.  Oh  I  '11  dissuade  him.  What  sort 
of  a  reptile  was  that  I  brought  in  ?  Did  Howlett 
sweep  it  away  ?  ' ' 

' '  He  can  sweep  it  back  again  for  all  I  care, ' ' 
I  said  indifferently,  "I  've  finished  my  break 
fast." 

"  No,"  said  Barris,  hastily  swallowing  his 
coffee,  "it  's  of  no  importance  ;  you  can  tell  me 
about  the  beast ' ' 

"Serve  you  right  if  I  had  it  brought  in  on 
toast,"  I  returned. 

Pierpont  came  in  radiant,  fresh  from  the  bath. 

"  Go  on  with  your  story,  Roy,"  he  said  ;  and  I 
told  them  about  Godfrey  and  his  reptile  pet. 

' '  Now  what  in  the  name  of  common  sense  can 
Godfrey  find  interesting  in  that  creature?"  I 
ended,  tossing  my  cigarette  into  the  fireplace. 

"  It's  Japanese,  don't  you  think  ?  "  said  Pier 
pont. 

"No,"  said  Barris,  "it  is  not  artistically  gro 
tesque,  it  's  vulgar  and  horrible, — it  looks  cheap 
and  unfinished " 

3 


34  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

"Unfinished,— exactly,"  said  I,  "like  an 
American  humorist ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  Pierpont,  "cheap.  What  about 
that  gold  serpent  ?  ' ' 

"  Oh,  the  Metropolitan  Museum  bought  it ;  you 
must  see  it,  it  's  marvellous." 

Barris  and  Pierpont  had  lighted  their  cigarettes 
and,  after  a  moment,  we  all  rose  and  strolled  out 
to  the  lawn,  where  chairs  and  hammocks  were 
placed  under  the  maple  trees. 

David  passed,  gun  under  arm,  dogs  heeling. 

"Three  guns  on  the  meadows  at  four  this 
afternoon,"  said  Pierpont. 

"  Roy,"  said  Barris  as  David  bowed  and  started 
on,  "what  did  you  do  yesterday  ?  " 

This  was  the  question  that  I  had  been  expect 
ing.  All  night  long  I  had  dreamed  of  Ysonde 
and  the  glade  in  the  woods,  where,  at  the  bottom 
of  the  crystal  fountain,  I  saw  the  reflection  of 
her  eyes.  All  the  morning  while  bathing  and 
dressing  I  had  been  persuading  myself  that  the 
dream  was  not  worth  recounting  and  that  a  search 
for  the  glade  and  the  imaginary  stone  carving 
would  be  ridiculous.  But  now,  as  Barris  asked 
the  question,  I  suddenly  decided  to  tell  him  the 
whole  story. 

"See  here,  you  fellows,"  I  said  abruptly,  "I 
am  going  to  tell  you  something  queer.  You  can 
laugh  as  much  as  you  please  too,  but  first  I  want 
to  ask  Barris  a  question  or  two.  You  have  been 
in  China,  Barris  ?  " 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  3  5 

*  *  Yes, ' '  said  Barris,  looking  straight  into  my 
eyes. 

' '  Would  a  Chinaman  be  likely  to  turn  lumber 
man?" 

' '  Have  you  seen  a  Chinaman  ?  "  he  asked  in  a 
quiet  voice. 

"I  don't  know;  David  and  I  both  imagined 
we  did." 

Barris  and  Pierpont  exchanged  glances. 

"  Have  you  seen  one  also  ?  "  I  demanded,  turn 
ing  to  include  Pierpont. 

"  No,"  said  Barris  slowly  ;  "  but  I  know  that 
there  is,  or  has  been,  a  Chinaman  in  these 
woods. ' ' 

"The  devil!"  said  I. 

"Yes,"  said  Barris  gravely;  "the  devil,  if 
you  like, — a  devil, — a  member  of  the  Kuen- 
Yuin." 

I  drew  my  chair  close  to  the  hammock  where 
Pierpont  lay  at  full  length,  holding  out  to  me  a 
ball  of  pure  gold. 

' '  Well  ? ' '  said  I,  examining  the  engraving  on 
its  surface,  which  represented  a  mass  of  twisted 
creatures, — dragons,  I  supposed. 

"Well,"  repeated  Barris,  extending  his  hand 
to  take  the  golden  ball,  * '  this  globe  of  gold  en 
graved  with  reptiles  and  Chinese  hieroglyphics  is 
the  symbol  of  the  Kuen-Yuin." 

"  Where  did  you  get  it  ?  "  I  asked,  feeling  that 
something  startling  was  impending. 

'  *  Pierpont  found  it  by  the  lake  at  sunrise  this 


36  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

morning.  It  is  the  symbol  of  the  Kuen-Yuin," 
he  repeated,  ' '  the  terrible  Kuen-Yuin,  the  sorcer 
ers  of  China,  and  the  most  murderously  diabolical 
sect  on  earth." 

We  puffed  our  cigarettes  in  silence  until  Barris 
rose,  and  began  to  pace  backward  and  forward 
among  the  trees,  twisting  his  grey  moustache. 

"The  Kuen-Yuin  are  sorcerers,"  he  said, 
pausing  before  the  hammock  where  Pierpont  lay 
watching  him;  "I  mean  exactly  what  I  say, — 
sorcerers.  I  've  seen  them, — I  've  seen  them  at 
their  devilish  business,  and  I  repeat  to  you  sol 
emnly,  that  as  there  are  angels  above,  there  is  a 
race  of  devils  on  earth,  and  they  are  sorcerers. 
Bah  !  "  he  cried,  * '  talk  to  me  of  Indian  magic 
and  Yogis  and  all  that  clap-trap  !  Why,  Roy,  I 
tell  you  that  the  Kuen-Yuin  have  absolute  control 
of  a  hundred  millions  of  people,  mind  and  body, 
body  and  soul.  Do  you  know  what  goes  on  in 
the  interior  of  China?  Does  Europe  know, — 
could  any  human  being  conceive  of  the  condition 
of  that  gigantic  hell-pit?  You  read  the  papers, 
you  hear  diplomatic  twaddle  about  L,i  Hung 
Chang  and  the  Emperor,  you  see  accounts  of 
battles  on  sea  and  land,  and  you  know  that  Japan 
has  raised  a  toy  tempest  along  the  jagged  edge  of 
the  great  unknown.  But  you  never  before  heard 
of  the  Kuen-Yuin  ;  no,  nor  has  any  European  ex 
cept  a  stray  missionary  or  two,  and  yet  I  tell  you 
that  when  the  fires  from  this  pit  of  hell  have 
eaten  through  the  continent  to  the  coast,  the  ex- 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  37 

plosion  will  inundate  half  a  world, — and  God  help 
the  other  half." 

Pierpont's  cigarette  went  out  ;  he  lighted 
another,  and  looked  hard  at  Barris. 

"But,"  resumed  Barris  quietly,  "'sufficient 
unto  the  day,'  you  know, — I  did  n't  intend  to  say 
as  much  as  I  did, — it  would  do  no  good, — even 
you  and  Pierpont  will  forget  it, — it  seems  so  im 
possible  and  so  far  away, — like  the  burning  out 
of  the  sun.  What  I  want  to  discuss  is  the  possi 
bility  or  probability  of  a  Chinaman, — a  member 
of  the  Kuen-Yuin,  being  here,  at  this  moment,  in 
the  forest." 

"If  he  is,"  said  Pierpont,  " possibly  the  gold- 
makers  owe  their  discovery  to  him." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it  for  a  second,"  said  Barris 
earnestly. 

I  took  the  little  golden  globe  in  my  hand,  and 
examined  the  characters  engraved  upon  it. 

"Barris,"  said  Pierpont,  "I  can't  believe  in 
sorcery  while  I  am  wearing  one  of  Sanford's 
shooting  suits  in  the  pocket  of  which  rests  an  un 
cut  volume  of  the  '  Duchess.'  " 

"Neither  can  I,"  I  said,  "for  I  read  the 
Evening  Post,  and  I  know  Mr.  Godkin  would  not 
allow  it.  Hello  !  What 's  the  matter  with  this 
gold  ball?" 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  said  Barris  grimly. 

"Why — why — it 's  changing  color — purple,  no, 
crimson — no,  it 's  green  I  mean — good  Heavens  ! 
these  dragons  are  twisting  under  my  fingers ' ' 


38  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

1 '  Impossible  ! ' '  muttered  Pierpont,  leaning 
over  me  ;  "  those  are  not  dragons " 

' '  No  ! "  I  cried  excitedly  ;  ' '  they  are  pictures 
of  that  reptile  that  Barris  brought  back — see — see 
how  they  crawl  and  turn ' ' 

' '  Drop  it !  "  commanded  Barris  ;  and  I  threw 
the  ball  on  the  turf.  In  an  instant  we  had  all 
knelt  down  on  the  grass  beside  it,  but  the  globe 
was  again  golden,  grotesquely  wrought  with  dra 
gons  and  strange  signs. 

Pierpont,  a  little  red  in  the  face,  picked  it  up, 
and  handed  it  to  Barris.  He  placed  it  on  a  chair, 
and  sat  down  beside  me. 

"Whew!"  said  I,  wiping  the  perspiration 
from  my  face,  "how  did  you  play  us  that  trick, 
Barris?" 

'  *  Trick  ? ' '  said  Barris  contemptuously. 

I  looked  at  Pierpont,  and  my  heart  sank.  If 
this  was  not  a  trick,  what  was  it  ?  Pierpont  re 
turned  my  glance  and  colored,  but  all  he  said 
was,  "It's  devilish  queer,"  and  Barris  an 
swered,  "Yes,  devilish."  Then  Barris  asked  me 
again  to  tell  my  story,  and  I  did,  beginning  from 
the  time  I  met  David  in  the  spinney  to  the  mo 
ment  when  I  sprang  into  the  darkening  thicket 
where  that  yellow  mask  had  grinned  like  a  phan 
tom  skull. 

"  Shall  we  try  to  find  the  fountain  ?  "  I  asked 
after  a  pause. 

"  Yes, — and — er — the  lady,"  suggested  Pier 
pont  vaguely. 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  39 

"Don't  be  an  ass,"  I  said  a  little  impatiently, 
"you  need  not  come,  you  know." 

"Oh,  I  '11  come,"  said  Pierpont,  "unless  you 
think  I  am  indiscreet — 

"  Shut  up,  Pierpont,"  said  Barris,  "this  thing 
is  serious  ;  I  never  heard  of  such  a  glade  or  such 
a  fountain,  but  it 's  true  that  nobody  knows  this 
forest  thoroughly.  It  's  worth  while  trying  for  ; 
Roy,  can  you  find  your  way  back  to  it  ?  " 

' '  Easily,  ' '  I  answered  ;  *  *  when  shall  we  go  ?  " 

' '  It  will  knock  our  snipe  shooting  on  the 
head,"  said  Pierpont,  "but  then  when  one  has 
the  opportunity  of  finding  a  live  dream-lady— 

I  rose,  deeply  offended,  but  Pierpont  was  not 
very  penitent  and  his  laughter  was  irresistible. 

"The  lady's  yours  by  right  of  discovery," 
he  said,  "I'll  promise  not  to  infringe  on  your 
dreams, — I  '11  dream  about  other  ladies — 

"  Come,  come,"  said  I,  "  I  '11  have  Hewlett  put 
you  to  bed  in  a  minute.  Barris,  if  you  are  ready, 
— we  can  get  back  to  dinner 

Barris  had  risen  and  was  gazing  at  me  ear 
nestly. 

"  What 's  the  matter?  "  I  asked  nervously,  for 
I  saw  that  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  my  forehead, 
and  I  thought  of  Ysonde  and  the  white  crescent 
scar. 

"  Is  that  a  birthmark  ?  "  said  Barris. 

"  Yes— why,  Barris  ?" 

"  Nothing, — an  interesting  coincidence " 

"  What !— for  Heaven's  sake  !  " 


4O  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

1  *  The  scar, — or  rather  the  birthmark.  It  is  the 
print  of  the  dragon's  claw, — the  crescent  symbol 
of  Yue-Laou " 

"And  who  the  devil  is  Yue-L,aou?"  I  said 
crossly. 

' '  Yue-I/aou, — the  Moon  Maker,  Dzil-Nbu  of 
the  Kuen-Yuin  ; — it 's  Chinese  Mythology,  but  it 
is  believed  that  Yue-Iyaou  has  returned  to  rule 
the  Kuen-Yuin " 

"  The  conversation,"  interrupted  Pierpont, 
"  smacks  of  peacocks  feathers  and  yellow-jackets. 
The  chicken-pox  has  left  its  card  on  Roy,  and 
Barris  is  guying  us.  Come  on,  you  fellows,  and 
make  your  call  on  the  dream-lady.  Barris,  I  hear 
galloping  ;  here  come  your  men." 

Two  mud  splashed  riders  clattered  up  to  the 
porch  and  dismounted  at  a  motion  from  Barris. 
I  noticed  that  both  of  them  carried  repeating 
rifles  and  heavy  Colt's  revolvers. 

They  followed  Barris,  deferentially,  into  the 
dining-room,  and  presently  we  heard  the  tinkle 
of  plates  and  bottles  and  the  low  hum  of  Barris' 
musical  voice. 

Half  an  hour  later  they  came  out  again,  saluted 
Pierpont  and  me,  and  galloped  away  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  Canadian  frontier.  Ten  minutes 
passed,  and,  as  Barris  did  not  appear,  we  rose 
and  went  into  the  house,  to  find  him.  He  was 
sitting  silently  before  the  table,  watching  the 
small  golden  globe,  now  glowing  with  scarlet  and 
orange  fire,  brilliant  as  a  live  coal.  Howlett, 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  4 1 

mouth  ajar,  and  eyes  starting  from  the  sockets, 
stood  petrified  behind  him. 

4 'Are  you  coming,"  asked  Pierpont,  a  little 
startled.  Barris  did  not  answer.  The  globe 
slowly  turned  to  pale  gold  again, — but  the  face 
that  Barris  raised  to  ours  was  white  as  a  sheet. 
Then  he  stood  up,  and  smiled  with  an  effort  which 
was  painful  to  us  all. 

"  Give  me  a  pencil  and  a  bit  of  paper,"  he  said. 

Hewlett  brought  it.  Barris  went  to  the  window 
and  wrote  rapidly.  He  folded  the  paper,  placed 
it  in  the  top  drawer  of  his  desk,  locked  the 
drawer,  handed  me  the  key,  and  motioned  us  to 
precede  him. 

When  again  we  stood  under  the  maples,  he 
turned  to  me  with  an  impenetrable  expression. 
"  You  will  know  when  to  use  the  key,"  he  said  : 
"  Come,  Pierpont,  we  must  try  to  find  Roy's 
fountain." 


VI. 


AT    two   o'clock  that  afternoon,  at   Barris' 
suggestion,  we   gave  up   the  search   for 
the  fountain  in  the  glade  and  cut  across 
the  forest  to  the  spinney  where  David  and  How- 
lett  were  waiting  with  our  guns  and  the  three 
dogs. 

Pierpont  guyed  me  unmercifully  about  the 
' '  dream-lady ' '  as  he  called  her,  and,  but  for 
the  significant  coincidence  of  Ysonde's  and  Bar 
ris'  questions  concerning  the  white  scar  on  my 
forehead,  I  should  long  ago  have  been  perfectly 
persuaded  that  I  had  dreamed  the  whole  thing. 
As  it  was,  I  had  no  explanation  to  offer.  We  had 
not  been  able  to  find  the  glade  although  fifty 
times  I  came  to  landmarks  which  convinced  me 
that  we  were  just  about  to  enter  it.  Barris  was 
quiet,  scarcely  uttering  a  word  to  either  of  us  dur 
ing  the  entire  search.  I  had  never  before  seen 
him  depressed  in  spirits.  However,  when  we 
came  in  sight  of  the  spinney  where  a  cold  bit  of 
grouse  and  a  bottle  of  Burgundy  awaited  each, 
Barris  seemed  to  recover  his  habitual  good  humor. 
41  Here  's  to  the  dream-lady  ! "  said  Pierpont, 
raising  his  glass  and  standing  up. 
42 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  43 

I  did  not  like  it.  Even  if  she  was  only  a  dream, 
it  irritated  me  to  hear  Pierpont's  mocking  voice. 
Perhaps  Barris  understood, — I  don't  know,  but 
he  bade  Pierpont  drink  his  wine  without  further 
noise,  and  that  young  man  obeyed  writh  a  child 
like  confidence  which  almost  made  Barris  smile. 

"What  about  the  snipe,  David,"  I  asked; 
*'  the  meadows  should  be  in  good  condition." 

"There  is  not  a  snipe  on  the  meadows,  sir," 
said  David  solemnly. 

"Impossible,"  exclaimed  Barris,  "they  can't 
have  left." 

"They  have,  sir,"  said  David  in  a  sepulchral 
voice  which  I  hardly  recognized. 

We  all  three  looked  at  the  old  man  curiously, 
waiting  for  his  explanation  of  this  disappointing 
but  sensational  report. 

David  looked  at  Hewlett  and  Hewlett  examined 
the  sky. 

"  I  was  going,"  began  the  old  man,  with  his 
eyes  fastened  on  Howlett,  ' '  I  was  going  along  by 
the  spinney  with  the  dogs  when  I  heard  a  noise  in 
the  covert  and  I  seen  Howlett  come  walkin'  very 
fast  toward  me.  In  fact,"  continued  David,  "I 
may  say  he  was  runnin'.  Was  you  runnin', 
Howlett?" 

Howlett  said  "  Yes,"  with  a  decorous  cough. 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  said  David,  "  but  I  'd  rather 
Howlett  told  the  rest.  He  saw  things  which  I 
did  not." 

"  Go  on,  Howlett,"  commanded  Pierpont,  much 
interested. 


44  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

Hewlett  coughed  again  behind  his  large  red 
hand. 

"  What  David  says  is  true  sir,"  he  began  ;  "  I 
h' observed  the  dogs  at  a  distance  'ow  they  was  a 
workin'  sir,  and  David  stood  a  lightin'  of  's  pipe 
be'ind  the  spotted  beech  when  I  see  a  'ead  pop 
up  in  the  covert  'oldin  a  stick  like  'e  was  h'aimin' 
at  the  dogs  sir" — 

"A  head  holding  a  stick?"  said  Pierpont 
severely. 

"The  'ead  'ad  'ands,  sir,"  explained  Hewlett, 
"  'ands  that  'eld  a  painted  stick, — like  that,  sir. 
'Owlett,  thinks  I  to  meself,  this  'ere  's  queer,  so 
I  jumps  in  an'  runs,  but  the  beggar  'e  seen  me 
an'  w'en  I  comes  alongside  of  David,  'e  was  gone. 
'  'Kilo  'Owlett,'  sez  David,  '  what  the  'ell  '—I  beg 
pardon,  sir, — *  'ow  did  you  come  'ere,'  sez  'e  very 
loud.  '  Run  ! '  sez  I,  '  the  Chinaman  is  harryin' 
the  dawgs  ! '  '  For  Gawd's  sake  wot  Chinaman  ? ' 
sez  David,  h'aimin'  'is  gun  at  every  bush.  Then 
I  thinks  I  see  'im  an'  we  run  an'  run,  the  dawgs  a 
boundin'  close  to  heel  sir,  but  we  don't  see  no 
Chinaman." 

"I  '11  tell  the  rest,"  said  David,  as  Howlett 
coughed  and  stepped  in  a  modest  corner  behind 
the  dogs. 

"  Go  on,"  said  Barris  in  a  strange  voice. 

'  *  Well  sir,  when  Howlett  and  I  stopped  chasin' , 
we  was  on  the  cliff  overlooking  the  south  meadow. 
I  noticed  that  there  was  hundreds  of  birds  there, 
mostly  yellow-legs  and  plover,  and  Howlett  seen 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  45 

them  too.  Then  before  I  could  say  a  word  to 
Hewlett,  something  out  in  the  lake  gave  a  splash 
— a  splash  as  if  the  whole  cliff  had  fallen  into  the 
water.  I  was  that  scared  that  I  jumped  straight 
into  the  bush  and  Hewlett  he  sat  down  quick, 
and  all  those  snipe  wheeled  up — there  was  hun 
dreds, — all  a  squeelin'  with  fright,  and  the  wood- 
duck  came  bowlin'  over  the  meadows  as  if  the  old 
Nick  was  behind." 

David  paused  and  glanced  meditatively  at  the 
dogs. 

' '  Go  on, "said  Barris  in  the  same  strained  voice. 

"  Nothing  more  sir.  The  snipe  did  not  come 
back." 

"  But  that  splash  in  the  lake  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  it  was  sir." 

"  A  salmon  ?  A  salmon  could  n't  have  fright 
ened  the  duck  and  the  snipe  that  way  ?  ' ' 

"  No — oh  no,  sir.  If  fifty  salmon  had  jumped 
they  could  n't  have  made  that  splash.  Could  n't 
they,  Hewlett?" 

"  No  'ow,"  said  Howlett. 

"Roy,"  said  Barris  at  length,  "what  David 
tells  us  settles  the  snipe  shooting  for  to-day.  I 
am  going  to  take  Pierpont  up  to  the  house. 
Howlett  and  David  will  follow  with  the  dogs, — I 
have  something  to  say  to  them.  If  you  care  to 
come,  come  along  ;  if  not,  go  and  shoot  a  brace 
of  grouse  for  dinner  and  be  back  by  eight  if  you 
want  to  see  what  Pierpont  and  I  discovered  last 
night." 


46  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

David  whistled  Gamin  and  Mioche  to  heel  and 
followed  Hewlett  and  his  hamper  toward  the 
house.  I  called  Voyou  to  my  side,  picked  lip  my 
gun  and  turned  to  Barris. 

"  I  will  be  back  by  eight,"  I  said  ;  "  you  are 
expecting  to  catch  one  of  the  gold-makers  are 
you  not  ?  ' ' 

"  Yes,"  said  Barris  listlessly. 

Pierpont  began  to  speak  about  the  Chinaman 
but  Barris  motioned  him  to  follow,  and,  nodding 
to  me,  took  the  path  that  Howlett  and  David  had 
followed  toward  the  house.  When  they  disap 
peared  I  tucked  my  gun  under  my  arm  and  turned 
sharply  into  the  forest,  Voyou  trotting  close  to 
my  heels. 

In  spite  of  myself  the  continued  apparition  of 
the  Chinaman  made  me  nervous.  If  he  troubled 
me  again  I  had  fully  decided  to  get  the  drop  on 
him  and  find  out  what  he  was  doing  in  the 
Cardinal  Woods.  If  he  could  give  no  satisfactory 
account  of  himself  I  would  march  him  in  to  Barris 
as  a  gold-making  suspect, — I  would  march  him 
in  anyway,  I  thought,  and  rid  the  forest  of  his 
ugly  face.  I  wondered  what  it  was  that  David 
had  heard  in  the  lake.  It  must  have  been  a  big 
fish,  a  salmon,  I  thought ;  probably  David's  and 
Hewlett's  nerves  were  overwrought  after  their 
Celestial  chase. 

A  whine  from  the  dog  broke  the  thread  of  my 
meditation  and  I  raised  my  head.  Then  I  stopped 
short  in  my  tracks. 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  47 

The  lost  glade  lay  straight  before  me. 

Already  the  dog  had  bounded  into  it,  across 
the  velvet  turf  to  the  carved  stone  where  a  slim 
figure  sat.  I  saw  my  dog  lay  his  silky  head 
lovingly  against  her  silken  kirtle ;  I  saw  her 
face  bend  above  him,  and  I  caught  my  breath 
and  slowly  entered  the  sun-lit  glade. 

Half  timidly  she  held  out  one  white  hand. 

"  Now  that  you  have  come,"  she  said,  "  I  can 
show  you  more  of  my  work.  I  told  you  that  I 
could  do  other  things  besides  these  dragon-flies 
and  moths  carved  here  in  stone.  Why  do  you 
stare  at  me  so  ?  Are  you  ill  ?  " 

"  Ysonde,"  I  stammered. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  a  faint  color  under  her 
eyes. 

"  I — I  never  expected  to  see  you  again,"  I 
blurted  out,  * '  —  you  —  I  —  I  —  thought  I  had 
dreamed ' ' 

"Dreamed,  of  me?  Perhaps  you  did,  is  that 
strange  ?  ' ' 

"Strange?  N — no — but — where  did  you  go 
when — when  we  were  leaning  over  the  fountain 
together  ?  I  saw  your  face, — your  face  reflected 
beside  mine  and  then — then  suddenly  I  saw  the 
blue  sky  and  only  a  star  twinkling." 

"It  was  because  you  fell  asleep,"  she  said, 
"was  it  not?" 

"I— asleep?" 

* '  You  slept — I  thought  you  were  very  tired  and 
I  went  back ' ' 


48  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

1 '  Back?— where?" 

' '  Back  to  my  home  where  I  carve  my  beauti 
ful  images ;  see,  here  is  one  I  brought  to  show  you 
to-day." 

I  took  the  sculptured  creature  that  she  held  to 
ward  me,  a  massive  golden  lizard  with  frail  claw- 
spread  wings  of  gold  so  thin  that  the  sunlight 
burned  through  and  fell  on  the  ground  in  flam 
ing  gilded  patches. 

' '  Good  Heavens  !  "  I  exclaimed,  ' '  this  is  as 
tounding  !  Where  did  you  learn  to  do  such  work  ? 
Ysonde,  such  a  thing  is  beyond  price  ! ' ' 

"Oh,  I  hope  so,"  she  said  earnestly,  "  I  can't 
bear  to  sell  my  work,  but  my  step-father  takes  it 
and  sends  it  away.  This  is  the  second  thing  I 
have  done  and  yesterday  he  said  I  must  give  it  to 
him.  I  suppose  he  is  poor." 

"I  don't  see  how  he  can  be  poor  if  he  gives 
you  gold  to  model  in,"  I  said,  astonished. 

"  Gold  !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  gold  !  He  has  a 
room  full  of  gold  !  He  makes  it. ' ' 

I  sat  down  on  the  turf  at  her  feet  completely 
unnerved. 

' '  Why  do  you  look  at  me  so  ?  "  she  asked,  a 
little  troubled. 

"  Where  does  your  step-father  live  ?  "  I  said  at 
last. 

"  Here." 

"Here!" 

"  In  the  woods  near  the  lake.  You  could 
never  find  our  house." 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  49 

"  A  house!" 

*  *  Of  course.  Did  you  think  I  lived  in  a  tree  ? 
How  silly.  I  live  with  my  step-father  in  a 
beautiful  house, — a  small  house,  but  very  beauti 
ful.  He  makes  his  gold  there  but  the  men  who 
carry  it  away  never  come  to  the  house,  for  they 
don't  know  where  it  is  and  if  they  did  they  could 
not  get  in.  My  step-father  carries  the  gold  in 
lumps  to  a  canvas  satchel.  When  the  satchel  is 
full  he  takes  it  out  into  the  woods  where  the  men 
live  and  I  don't  know  what  they  do  with  it.  I 
wish  he  could  sell  the  gold  and  become  rich  for 
then  I  could  go  back  to  Yian  where  all  the  gardens 
are  sweet  and  the  river  flows  under  the  thousand 
bridges." 

1  (  Where  is  this  city  ?  "     I  asked  faintly. 

"  Yian  ?  I  don't  know.  It  is  sweet  with  per 
fume  and  the  sound  of  silver  bells  all  day  long. 
Yesterday  I  carried  a  blossom  of  dried  lotus  buds 
from  Yian,  in  my  breast,  and  all  the  woods  were 
fragrant.  Did  you  smell  it  ?  " 

"Yes." 

11 1  wondered,  last  night,  whether  you  did. 
How  beautiful  your  dog  is  ;  I  love  him.  Yester 
day  I  thought  most  about  your  dog  but  last 
night " 

"  L,ast  night,"  I  repeated  below  my  breath. 

"  I  thought  of  you.  Why  do  you  wear  the 
dragon-claw  ?  ' ' 

I  raised  my  hand  impulsively  to  my  forehead, 
covering  the  scar. 


50  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

"  What  do  you  know  of  the  dragon-claw  ?  "  I 
muttered. 

"  It  is  the  symbol  of  Yue-I^aou,  and  Yue-Laou 
rules  the  Kuen-Yuin,  my  step -father  says.  My 
step-father  tells  me  everything  that  I  know.  We 
lived  in  Yian  until  I  was  sixteen  years  old.  I  am 
eighteen  now ;  that  is  two  years  we  have  lived 
in  the  forest.  L,ook  ! — see  those  scarlet  birds  ! 
What  are  they  ?  There  are  birds  of  the  same 
color  in  Yian." 

"Where  is  Yian,  Ysonde?"  I  asked  with 
deadly  calmness. 

"Yian?    I  don't  know." 

"  But  you  have  lived  there  ?  " 

"  Yes,  a  very  long  time." 

1 '  Is  it  across  the  ocean,  Ysonde  ?  ' ' 

"  It  is  across  seven  oceans  and  the  great  river 
which  is  longer  than  from  the  earth  to  the  moon." 

1 '  Who  told  you  that  ?" 

' '  Who  ?  My  step-father  ;  he  tells  me  every 
thing." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  his  name,  Ysonde  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  it,  he  is  my  step-father,  that  is 
all." 

' '  And  what  is  your  name  ?  ' ' 

"  You  know  it,  Ysonde." 

"  Yes,  but  what  other  name." 

"  That  is  all,  Ysonde.  Have  you  two  names  ? 
Why  do  you  look  at  me  so  impatiently  ? ' ' 

"  Does  your  step-father  make  gold  ?  Have  you 
seen  him  make  it  ?  " 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  5 1 

"  Oh.  yes.  He  made  it  also  in  Yian  and  I  loved 
to  watch  the  sparks  at  night  whirling  like  golden 
bees.  Yian  is  lovely, — if  it  is  all  like  our  garden 
and  the  gardens  around.  I  can  see  the  thousand 
bridges  from  my  garden  and  the  white  mountain 
beyond — ' ' 

' '  And  the  people  —  tell  me  of  the  people, 
Ysonde  ! "  I  urged  gently. 

1  *  The  people  of  Yian  ?  I  could  see  them  in 
swarms  like  ants — oh  !  many,  many  millions 
crossing  and  recrossing  the  thousand  bridges." 

"  But  how  did  they  look?  Did  they  dress  as 
I  do?" 

"  I  don't  know.  They  were  very  far  away, 
moving  specks  on  the  thousand  bridges.  For 
sixteen  years  I  saw  them  every  day  from  my  gar 
den  but  I  never  went  out  of  my  garden  into  the 
streets  of  Yian,  for  my  step- father  forbade  me." 

* '  You  never  saw  a  living  creature  near  by  in 
Yian  ?  "  I  asked  in  despair. 

' '  My  birds,  oh  such  tall,  wise-looking  birds,  all 
over  grey  and  rose  color." 

She  leaned  over  the  gleaming  water  and  drew 
her  polished  hand  across  the  surface. 

1 '  Why  do  you  ask  me  these  questions, ' '  she 
murmured  ;  ' '  are  you  displeased  ?  ' ' 

"Tell  me  about  your  step-father,"  I  insisted. 
"  Does  he  look  as  I  do?  Does  he  dress,  does  he 
speak  as  I  do  ?  Is  he  American  ?  ' ' 

" American?  I  don't  know.  He  does  not 
dress  as  you  do  and  he  does  not  look  as  you  do. 


5  2  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

He  is  old,  very,  very  old.  He  speaks  sometimes 
as  you  do,  sometimes  as  they  do  in  Yian.  I  speak 
also  in  both  manners." 

"  Then  speak  as  they  do  in  Yian,"  I  urged  im 
patiently,  *  *  speak  as — why,  Ysonde  !  why  are 
you  crying  ?  Have  I  hurt  you  ? — I  did  not  in 
tend, — I  did  not  dream  of  your  caring  !  There 
Ysonde,  forgive  me, — see,  I  beg  you  on  my  knees 
here  at  your  feet." 

I  stopped,  my  eyes  fastened  on  a  small  golden 
ball  which  hung  from  her  waist  by  a  golden  chain. 
I  saw  it  trembling  against  her  thigh,  I  saw  it 
change  color,  now  crimson,  now  purple,  now 
flaming  scarlet.  It  was  the  symbol  of  the  Kuen- 
Yuin. 

She  bent  over  me  and  laid  her  fingers  gently 
on  my  arm. 

"  Why  do  you  ask  me  such  things  ?  "  she  said, 
while  the  tears  glistened  on  her  lashes.  "  It 
hurts  me  here, — "  she  pressed  her  hand  to  her 
breast, — "it  pains. — I  don't  know  why.  Ah, 
now  your  eyes  are  hard  and  cold  again  ;  you  are 
looking  at  the  golden  globe  which  hangs  from 
my  waist.  Do  you  wish  to  know  also  what  that 
is?" 

"Yes,"  I  muttered,  my  eyes  fixed  on  the  in 
fernal  color  flames  which  subsided  as  I  spoke, 
leaving  the  ball  a  pale  gilt  again. 

"  It  is  the  symbol  of  the  Kuen-Ytiin,"  she  said 
in  a  trembing  voice  ;  "  why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"Is  it  yours?" 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  53 

"Y— yes." 

"Where  did  you  get  it ? "  I  cried  harshly. 

' (  My — my  step-fa — 

Then  she  pushed  me  away  from  her  with  all 
the  strength  of  her  slender  wrists  and  covered  her 
face. 

If  I  slipped  my  arm  about  her  and  drew  her  to 
me, — if  I  kissed  away  the  tears  that  fell  slowly  be 
tween  her  fingers, — if  I  told  her  how  I  loved  her 
— how  it  cut  me  to  the  heart  to  see  her  unhappy, 
— after  all  that  is  my  own  business.  When  she 
smiled  through  her  tears,  the  pure  love  and 
sweetness  in  her  eyes  lifted  my  soul  higher  than 
the  high  moon  vaguely  glimmering  through  the 
sun-lit  blue  above.  My  happiness  was  so  sudden, 
so  fierce  and  overwhelming  that  I  only  knelt 
there,  her  fingers  clasped  in  mine,  my  eyes  raised 
to  the  blue  vault  and  the  glimmering  moon. 
Then  something  in  the  long  grass  beside  me 
moved  close  to  my  knees  and  a  damp  acrid  odor 
filled  my  nostrils. 

"  Ysonde  !  "  I  cried,  but  the  touch  of  her  hand 
was  already  gone  and  my  two  clenched  fists  were 
cold  and  damp  with  dew. 

"Ysonde!"  I  called  again,  my  tongue  stiff 
with  fright ; — but  I  called  as  one  awaking  from  a 
dream — a  horrid  dream,  for  my  nostrils  quivered 
with  the  damp  acrid  odor  and  I  felt  the  crab-rep 
tile  clinging  to  my  knee.  Why  had  the  night 
fallen  so  swiftly, — and  where  was  I — where? — stiff, 
chilled,  torn,  and  bleeding,  lying  flung  like  a 


54  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

corpse  over  my  own  threshold  with  Voyou  licking 
rny  face  and  Barris  stooping  above  me  in  the  light 
of  a  lamp  that  flared  and  smoked  in  the  night 
breeze  like  a  torch.  Faugh  !  the  choking  stench 
of  the  lamp  aroused  me  and  I  cried  out : 

"Ysonde!" 

"What  the  devil  's  the  matter  with  him?" 
muttered  Pierpont,  lifting  me  in  his  arms  like  a 
child,  "  has  he  been  stabbed,  Barris  ?  " 


VII. 

IN  a  few  minutes  I  was  able  to  stand  and  walk 
stiffly  into  my  bedroom  where  Hewlett  had 
a  hot  bath  ready  and  a  hotter  tumbler  of 
Scotch.      Pierpont  sponged  the  blood  from  my 
throat  where  it  had  coagulated.     The  cut  was 
slight,  almost  invisible,  a  mere  puncture  from  a 
thorn.     A  shampoo  cleared  my  mind,  and  a  cold 
plunge  and  alcohol  friction  did  the  rest. 

1 '  Now, ' '  said  Pierpont,  * '  swallow  your  hot 
Scotch  and  lie  down.  Do  you  want  a  broiled 
woodcock?  Good,  I  fancy  you  are  coming 
about." 

Barris  and  Pierpont  watched  me  as  I  sat  on  the 
edge  of  the  bed,  solemnly  chewing  on  the  wood 
cock's  wishbone  and  sipping  my  Bordeaux,  very 
much  at  my  ease. 

Pierpont  sighed  his  relief. 

"  So,"  he  said  pleasantly,  "  it  was  a  mere  case 
of  ten  dollars  or  ten  days.  I  thought  you  had 
been  stabbed " 

"I  was  not  intoxicated,"  I  replied,  serenely 
picking  up  a  bit  of  celery. 

"Only  jagged?"  enquired  Pierpont,  full  of 
sympathy. 

55 


5  6  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

4 '  Nonsense, ' '  said  Barris,  '  *  let  him  alone. 
Want  some  more  celery,  Roy  ? — it  will  make  you 
sleep." 

"  I  don't  want  to  sleep,"  I  answered  ;  "  when 
are  you  and  Pierpont  going  to  catch  your  Gold- 
maker?" 

Barris  looked  at  his  watch  and  closed  it  with  a 
snap. 

"  In  an  hour;  you  don't  propose  to  go  with 
us?" 

"  But  I  do, — toss  me  a  cup  of  coffee,  Pierpont, 
will  you, — that  's  just  what  I  propose  to  do. 
Hewlett,  bring  the  new  box  of  Panatella's, — the 
mild  imported  ; — and  leave  the  decanter.  Now 
Barris,  I  '11  be  dressing,  and  you  and  Pierpont 
keep  still  and  listen  to  what  I  have  to  say.  Is 
that  door  shut  tight  ?" 

Barris  locked  it  and  sat  down. 

' '  Thanks, ' '  said  I,  '  *  Barris,  where  is  the  city 
ofYian?" 

An  expression  akin  to  terror  flashed  into  Bar 
ris'  eyes  and  I  saw  him  stop  breathing  for  a 
moment. 

"There  is  no  such  city,"  he  said  at  length, 
' '  have  I  been  talking  in  my  sleep  ?  ' ' 

"It  is  a  city,"  I  continued,  calmly,  "where 
the  river  winds  under  the  thousand  bridges, 
where  the  gardens  are  sweet  scented  and  the  air 
is  filled  with  the  music  of  silver  bells ' ' 

*  *  Stop  ! ' '  gasped  Barris,  and  rose  trembling 
from  his  chair.  He  had  grown  ten  years  elder. 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  5  7 

"Roy,"  interposed  Pierpont coolly,  "what  the 
deuce  are  you  harrying  Barris  for  ?  " 

I  looked  at  Barris  and  he  looked  at  me.  After 
a  second  or  two  he  sat  down  again. 

"  Go  on,  Roy,"  he  said. 

"  I  must,"  I  answered,  "  for  now  I  am  certain 
that  I  have  not  dreamed." 

I  told  them  everything  ;  but,  even  as  I  told  it, 
the  whole  thing  seemed  so  vague,  so  unreal,  that 
at  times  I  stopped  with  the  hot  blood  tingling  in 
my  ears,  for  it  seemed  impossible  that  sensible 
men,  in  the  year  of  our  L,ord  1896  could  seriously 
discuss  such  matters. 

I  feared  Pierpont,  but  he  did  not  even  smile. 
As  for  Barris,  he  sat  with  his  handsome  head 
sunk  on  his  breast,  his  unlighted  pipe  clasped 
tight  in  both  hands. 

When  I  had  finished,  Pierpont  turned  slowly 
and  looked  at  Barris.  Twice  he  moved  his  lips 
as  if  about  to  ask  something  and  then  remained 
mute. 

"  Yian  is  a  city,"  said  Barris,  speaking  dream 
ily  ;  "  was  that  what  you  wished  to  know,  Pier 
pont?" 

We  nodded  silently. 

"Yian  is  a  city,"  repeated  Barris,  "where  the 
great  river  winds  under  the  thousand  bridges, 
— where  the  gardens  are  sweet  scented,  and  the 
air  is  filled  with  the  music  of  silver  bells." 

My  lips  formed  the  question,  "Where  is  this 
city?" 


5  8  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

"It  lies,"  said  Barris,  almost  querulously, 
' '  across  the  seven  oceans  and  the  river  which  is 
longer  than  from  the  earth  to  the  moon." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  said  Pierpont. 

"Ah,"  said  Barris,  rousing  himself  with  an 
effort  and  raising  his  sunken  eyes,  "  I  am  using 
the  allegories  of  another  land  ;  let  it  pass.  Have 
I  not  told  you  of  the  Kuen-Yuin  ?  Yian  is  the 
centre  of  the  Kuen-Yuin.  It  lies  hidden  in  that 
gigantic  shadow  called  China,  vague  and  vast  as 
the  midnight  Heavens, — a  continent  unknown, 
impenetrable." 

"Impenetrable,"  repeated  Pierpont  below  his 
breath. 

"I  have  seen  it,"  said  Barris  dreamily.  "I 
have  seen  the  dead  plains  of  Black  Cathay  and  I 
have  crossed  the  mountains  of  Death,  whose 
summits  are  above  the  atmosphere.  I  have  seen 
the  shadow  of  Xangi  cast  across  Abaddon.  Bet 
ter  to  die  a  million  miles  from  Yezd  and  Ater 
Quedah  than  to  have  seen  the  white  water-lotus 
close  in  the  shadow  of  Xangi  !  I  have  slept 
among  the  ruins  of  Xaindu  where  the  winds 
never  cease  and  the  Wulwulleh  is  wailed  by  the 
dead." 

"  And  Yian,"  I  urged  gently. 

There  was  an  unearthly  look  on  his  face  as  he 
turned  slowly  toward  me. 

"Yian, — I  have  lived  there — and  loved  there. 
When  the  breath  of  my  body  shall  cease,  when 
the  dragon's  claw  shall  fade  from  my  arm," — -he 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  5  9 

tore  up  his  sleeve,  and  we  saw  a  white  crescent 
shining  above  his  elbow, — "when  the  light  of 
my  eyes  has  faded  forever,  then,  even  then  I  shall 
not  forget  the  city  of  Yian.  Why,  it  is  my  home, 
— mine  !  The  river  and  the  thousand  bridges, 
the  white  peak  beyond,  the  sweet-scented  gar 
dens,  the  lilies,  the  pleasant  noise  of  the  summer 
wind  laden  with  bee  music  and  the  music  of  bells, 
— all  these  are  mine.  Do  you  think  because  the 
Kuen-Yuin  feared  the  dragon's  claw  on  my  arm 
that  my  work  with  them  is  ended?  Do  you 
think  that  because  Yue-L,aou  could  give,  that  I 
acknowledge  his  right  to  take  awajr  ?  Is  he 
Xangi  in  whose  shadow  the  white  water-lotus 
dares  not  raise  its  head?  No  !  No  ! "  he  cried 
violently,  "it  was  not  from  Yue-L,aou,  the  sor 
cerer,  the  Maker  of  Moons,  that  my  happiness 
came  !  It  was  real,  it  was  not  a  shadow  to  vanish 
like  a  tinted  bubble  !  Can  a  sorcerer  create,  and 
give  a  man  the  woman  he  loves  ?  Is  Yue-L,aou 
as  great  as  Xangi  then  ?  Xangi  is  God.  In  His 
own  time,  in  His  infinite  goodness  and  mercy  He 
will  bring  me  again  to  the  woman  I  love.  And  I 
know  she  waits  for  me  at  God's  feet." 

In  the  strained  silence  that  followed  I  could 
hear  my  heart's  double  beat  and  I  saw  Pierpont's 
face,  blanched  and  pitiful.  Barris  shook  himself 
and  raised  his  head.  The  change  in  his  ruddy 
face  frightened  me. 

"  Heed  !  "  he  said,  with  a  terrible  glance  at  me  ; 
"the  print  of  the  dragon's  claw  is  on  your  fore- 


60  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

head  and  Yue-I^aou  knows  it.  If  you  must 
love,  then  love  like  a  man,  for  you  will  suffer 
like  a  soul  in  hell,  in  the  end.  What  is  her  name 
again  ? ' ' 

' '  Ysonde, ' '  I  answered  simply. 


VIII. 

AT  nine  o'clock  that  night  we  caught  one  of 
the  Goldmakers.  I  do  not  know  how 
Barris  had  laid  his  trap  ;  all  I  saw  of  the 
affair  can  be  told  in  a  minute  or  two. 

We  were  posted  on  the  Cardinal  road  about  a 
mile  below  the  house,  Pierpont  and  I  with  drawn 
revolvers  on  one  side,  under  a  butternut  tree, 
Barris  on  the  other,  a  Winchester  across  his 
knees. 

I  had  just  asked  Pierpont  the  hour,  and  he  was 
feeling  for  his  watch  when  far  up  the  road  we 
heard  the  sound  of  a  galloping  horse,  nearer, 
nearer,  clattering,  thundering  past.  Then  Barris' 
rifle  spat  flame  and  the  dark  mass,  horse  and 
rider,  crashed  into  the  dust.  Pierpont  had  the 
half  stunned  horseman  by  the  collar  in  a  second, 
— the  horse  was  stone  dead, — and,  as  we  lighted 
a  pine  knot  to  examine  the  fellow,  Barris'  two 
riders  galloped  up  and  drew  bridle  beside  us. 

"Hm!"  said  Barris  with  a  scowl,  "it's  the 
*  Shiner,'  or  I 'm  a  moonshiner." 

We  crowded  curiously  around  to  see  the 
"Shiner."  He  was  red-headed,  fat  and  filthy, 
61 


62  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

and  his  little  red  eyes  burned  in  his  head  like 
the  eyes  of  an  angry  pig. 

Barris  went  through  his  pockets  methodically 
while  Pierpont  held  him  and  I  held  the  torch. 
The  Shiner  was  a  gold  mine  ;  pockets,  shirt,  boot 
legs,  hat,  even  his  dirty  fists,  clutched  tight  and 
bleeding,  were  bursting  with  lumps  of  soft  yellow 
gold.  Barris  dropped  this  "  moonshine  gold,"  as 
we  had  come  to  call  it,  into  the  pockets  of  his 
shooting-coat,  and  withdrew  to  question  the 
prisoner.  He  came  back  again  in  a  few  minutes 
and  motioned  his  mounted  men  to  take  the 
Shiner  in  charge.  We  watched  them,  rifle  on 
thigh,  walking  their  horses  slowly  away  into  the 
darkness,  the  Shiner,  tightly  bound,  shuffling 
sullenly  between  them. 

"Who  is  the  Shiner?"  asked  Pierpont,  slip 
ping  the  revolver  into  his  pocket  again. 

* '  A  moonshiner,  counterfeiter,  forger,  and 
highwayman,"  said  Barris,  "and  probably  a 
murderer.  Drummond  will  be  glad  to  see  him, 
and  I  think  it  likely  he  will  be  persuaded  to  con 
fess  to  him  what  he  refuses  to  confess  to  me." 

"Would  n't  he  talk  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Not  a  syllable.  Pierpont,  there  is  nothing 
more  for  you  to  do. ' ' 

' '  For  me  to  do  ?  Are  you  not  coming  back 
with  us,  Barris?" 

"No,"  said  Barris. 

We  walked  along  the  dark  road  in  silence  for  a 
while,  I  wondering  what  Barris  intended  to  do, 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  63 

but  he  said  nothing  more  until  we  reached  our 
own  verandah.  Here  he  held  out  his  hand,  first 
to  Pierpont,  then  to  me,  saying  good-bye  as 
though  he  were  going  on  a  long  journey. 

' '  How  soon  will  you  be  back  ?  "  I  called  out  to 
him  as  he  turned  away  toward  the  gate.  He 
came  across  the  lawn  again  and  again  took  our 
hands  with  a  quiet  affection  that  I  had  never 
imagined  him  capable  of. 

"  I  am  going,"  he  said,  "  to  put  an  end  to  his 
gold-making  to-night.  I  know  that  you  fellows 
have  never  suspected  what  I  was  about  on  my 
little  solitary  evening  strolls  after  dinner.  I  will 
tell  you.  Already  I  have  unobtrusively  killed 
four  of  these  gold-makers, — my  men  put  them 
under  ground  just  below  the  new  wash-out  at  the 
four  mile  stone.  There  are  three  left  alive, — the 
Shiner  whom  we  have,  another  criminal  named 
1  Yellow, '  or  '  Yaller '  in  the  vernacular,  and  the 
third " 

4 'The  third,"  repeated  Pierpont,  excitedly. 

4 'The  third  I  have  never  yet  seen.  But  I 
know  who  and  what  he  is, — I  know  ;  and  if  he 
is  of  human  flesh  and  blood,  his  blood  will  flow 
to-night." 

As  he  spoke  a  slight  noise  across  the  turf  at 
tracted  my  attention.  A  mounted  man  was 
advancing  silently  in  the  starlight  over  the 
spongy  meadowland.  When  he  came  nearer 
Barris  struck  a  match,  and  we  saw  that  he  bore 
a  corpse  across  his  saddle  bow. 


64  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

"  Yaller,  Colonel  Barris,"  said  the  man,  touch 
ing  his  slouched  hat  in  salute. 

This  grim  introduction  to  the  corpse  made  me 
shudder,  and,  after  a  moment's  examination  of 
the  stiff,  wide-eyed  dead  man,  I  drew  back. 

"  Identified,"  said  Barris,  "  take  him  to  the  four 
mile  post  and  carry  his  effects  to  Washington, — 
under  seal,  mind,  Johnstone." 

Away  cantered  the  rider  with  his  ghastly  bur 
den,  and  Barris  took  our  hands  once  more  for  the 
last  time.  Then  he  went  away,  gaily,  with  a 
jest  on  his  lips,  and  Pierpont  and  I  turned  back 
into  the  house. 

For  an  hour  we  sat  moodily  smoking  in  the 
hall  before  the  fire,  saying  little  until  Pierpont 
burst  out  with  :  "I  wish  Barris  had  taken  one 
of  us  with  him  to-night ! ' ' 

The  same  thought  had  been  running  in  my  mind, 
but  I  said  :  "  Barris  knows  what  he  's  about." 

This  observation  neither  comforted  us  nor 
opened  the  lane  to  further  conversation,  and  after 
a  few  minutes  Pierpont  said  good  night  and 
called  for  Hewlett  and  hot  water.  When  he  had 
been  warmly  tucked  away  by  Hewlett,  I  turned 
out  all  but  one  lamp,  sent  the  dogs  away  with 
David  and  dismissed  Howlett  for  the  night. 

I  was  not  inclined  to  retire  for  I  knew  I  could 
not  sleep.  There  was  a  book  lying  open  on  the 
table  beside  the  fire  and  I  opened  it  and  read  a 
page  or  two,  but  my  mind  was  fixed  on  other 
things. 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  65 

The  window  shades  were  raised  and  I  looked 
out  at  the  star-set  firmament.  There  was  no 
moon  that  night  but  the  sky  was  dusted  all  over 
with  sparkling  stars  and  a  pale  radiance,  brighter 
even  than  moonlight,  fell  over  meadow  and  wood. 
Far  away  in  the  forest  I  heard  the  voice  of  the 
wind,  a  soft  warm  wind  that  whispered  a  name, 
Ysonde. 

"I/isten,"  sighed  the  voice  of  the  wind,  and 
*  *  listen  ' '  echoed  the  swaying  trees  with  every 
little  leaf  a-quiver.  I  listened. 

Where  the  long  grasses  trembled  with  the 
cricket's  cadence  I  heard  her  name,  Ysonde ;  I 
heard  it  in  the  rustling  woodbine  where  grey 
moths  hovered  ;  I  heard  it  in  the  drip,  drip,  drip 
of  the  dew  from  the  porch.  The  silent  meadow 
brook  whispered  her  name,  the  rippling  woodland 
streams  repeated  it,  Ysonde,  Ysonde,  until  all 
earth  and  sky  were  filled  with  the  soft  thrill, 
Ysonde,  Ysonde,  Ysonde. 

A  night-thrush  sang  in  a  thicket  by  the  porch 
and  I  stole  to  the  verandah  to  listen.  After  a 
while  it  began  again,  a  little  further  on.  I  ven 
tured  out  into  the  road.  Again  I  heard  it  far 
away  in  the  forest  and  I  followed  it,  for  I  knew  it 
was  singing  of  Ysonde. 

When  I  came  to  the  path  that  leaves  the  main 
road  and  enters  the  Sweet- Fern  Covert  below  the 
spinney,  I  hesitated  ;  but  the  beauty  of  the  night 
lured  me  on  and  the  night- thrushes  called  me 
from  every  thicket.  In  the  starry  radiance, 


66  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

shrubs,  grasses,  field  flowers,  stood  out  distinctly, 
for  there  was  no  moon  to  cast  shadows.  Meadow 
and  brook,  grove  and  stream,  were  illuminated 
by  the  pale  glow.  I4ke  great  lamps  lighted  the 
planets  hung  from  the  high  domed  sky  and 
through  their  mysterious  rays  the  fixed  stars, 
calm,  serene,  stared  from  the  heavens  like  eyes. 

I  waded  on  waist  deep  through  fields  of  dewy 
golden-rod,  through  late  clover  and  wild-oat 
wastes,  through  crimson  fruited  sweetbrier,  blue 
berry,  and  wild  plum,  until  the  low  whisper  of 
the  Wier  Brook  warned  me  that  the  path  had 
ended. 

But  I  would  not  stop,  for  the  night  air  was 
heavy  with  the  perfume  of  water-lilies  and  far 
away,  across  the  low  wooded  cliffs  and  the  wet 
meadowland  beyond,  there  was  a  distant  gleam 
of  silver,  and  I  heard  the  murmur  of  sleepy 
waterfowl.  I  would  go  to  the  lake.  The  way 
was  clear  except  for  the  dense  young  growth  and 
the  snares  of  the  moose-bush. 

The  night-thrushes  had  ceased  but  I  did  not 
want  for  the  company  of  living  creatures. 
Slender,  quick  darting  forms  crossed  my  path 
at  intervals,  sleek  mink,  that  fled  like  shadows 
at  my  step,  wiry  weasels  and  fat  musk-rats, 
hurrying  onward  to  some  tryst  or  killing. 

I  never  had  seen  so  many  little  woodland 
creatures  on  the  move  at  night.  I  began  to 
wonder  where  they  all  were  going  so  fast,  why 
they  all  hurried  on  in  the  same  direction.  Now 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  67 

I  passed  a  hare  hopping  through  the  brushwood, 
now  a  rabbit  scurrying  by,  flag  hoisted.  As  I 
entered  the  beech  second-growth  two  foxes  glided 
by  me  ;  a  little  further  on  a  doe  crashed  out  of 
the  underbrush,  and  close  behind  her  stole  a 
lynx,  eyes  shining  like  coals. 

He  neither  paid  attention  to  the  doe  nor  to  me, 
but  loped  away  toward  the  north. 

The  lynx  was  in  flight. 

'  *  From  what  ?  "  I  asked  myself,  wondering. 
There  was  no  forest  fire,  no  cyclone,  no  flood. 

If  Barris  had  passed  that  way  could  he  have 
stirred  up  this  sudden  exodus  ?  Impossible ; 
even  a  regiment  in  the  forest  could  scarcely  have 
put  to  rout  these  frightened  creatures. 

"  What  on  earth,"  thought  I,  turning  to  watch 
the  headlong  flight  of  a  fisher-cat,  "what  on 
earth  has  started  the  beasts  out  at  this  time  of 
night." 

I  looked  up  into  the  sky.  The  placid  glow  of 
the  fixed  stars  comforted  me  and  I  stepped  on 
through  the  narrow  spruce  belt  that  leads  down 
to  the  borders  of  the  L,ake  of  the  Stars. 

Wild  cranberry  and  moose-bush  entwined  my 
feet,  dewy  branches  spattered  me  with  moisture, 
and  the  thick  spruce  needles  scraped  my  face  as 
I  threaded  my  way  over  mossy  logs  and  deep 
spongy  tussocks  down  to  the  level  gravel  of  the 
lake  shore. 

Although  there  was  no  wind  the  little  waves 
were  hurrying  in  from  the  lake  and  I  heard  them 


68  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

splashing  among  the  pebbles.  In  the  pale  star 
glow  thousands  of  water-lilies  lifted  their  half- 
closed  chalices  toward  the  sky. 

I  threw  myself  full  length  upon  the  shore,  and, 
chin  on  hand,  looked  out  across  the  lake. 

Splash,  splash,  came  the  waves  along  the  shore, 
higher,  nearer,  until  a  film  of  water,  thin  and 
glittering  as  a  knife  blade,  crept  up  to  my  elbows. 
I  could  not  understand  it ;  the  lake  was  rising, 
but  there  had  been  no  rain.  All  along  the  shore 
the  water  was  running  up ;  I  heard  the  waves 
among  the  sedge  grass ;  the  weeds  at  my  side 
were  awash  in  the  ripples.  The  lilies  rocked  on 
the  tiny  waves,  every  wet  pad  rising  on  the 
swells,  sinking,  rising  again  until  the  whole  lake 
was  glimmering  with  undulating  blossoms.  How 
sweet  and  deep  was  the  fragrance  from  the  lilies. 
And  now  the  water  was  ebbing,  slowly,  and  the 
waves  receded,  shrinking  from  the  shore  rim 
until  the  white  pebbles  appeared  again,  shining 
like  froth  on  a  brimming  glass. 

No  animal  swimming  out  in  the  darkness  along 
the  shore,  no  heavy  salmon  surging,  could  have 
set  the  whole  shore  aflood  as  though  the  wash 
from  a  great  boat  were  rolling  in.  Could  it  have 
been  the  overflow,  through  the  Weir  Brook,  of 
some  cloud-burst  far  back  in  the  forest?  This 
was  the  only  way  I  could  account  for  it,  and  yet 
when  I  had  crossed  the  Wier  Brook  I  had  not 
noticed  that  it  was  swollen. 

And  as  I  lay  there  thinking,  a  faint  breeze 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  69 

sprang  up  and  I  saw  the  surface  of  the  lake 
whiten  with  lifted  lily  pads. 

All  around  me  the  alders  were  sighing;  I  heard 
the  forest  behind  me  stir  ;  the  crossed  branches 
rubbing  softly,  bark  against  bark.  Something — 
it  may  have  been  an  owl — sailed  out  of  the  night, 
dipped,  soared,  and  was  again  engulfed,  and  far 
across  the  water  I  heard  its  faint  cry,  Ysonde. 

Then  first,  for  my  heart  was  full,  I  cast  myself 
down  upon  my  face,  calling  on  her  name.  My 
eyes  were  wet  when  I  raised  my  head, — for  the 
spray  from  the  shore  was  drifting  in  again, — and 
my  heart  beat  heavily ;  '  *  No  more,  no  more. ' '  But 
my  heart  lied,  for  even  as  I  raised  my  face  to  the 
calm  stars,  I  saw  her  standing  still,  close  beside 
me  ;  and  very  gently  I  spoke  her  name,  Ysonde. 
She  held  out  both  hands. 

"  I  was  lonely,"  she  said,  "  and  I  went  to  the 
glade,  but  the  forest  is  full  of  frightened  creatures 
and  they  frightened  me.  Has  anything  happened 
in  the  woods  ?  The  deer  are  running  toward  the 
heights." 

Her  hand  still  lay  in  mine  as  we  moved  along 
the  shore,  and  the  lapping  of  the  water  on  rock 
and  shallow  was  no  lower  than  our  voices. 

' '  Why  did  you  leave  me  without  a  word,  there 
at  the  fountain  in  the  glade  ?  ' '  she  said. 

"  I  leave  you! " 

"  Indeed  you  did,  running  swiftly  with  your 
dog,  plunging  through  thickets  and  brush, — oh 
— you  frightened  me." 


70  The  Maker  of  Moons, 

"  Did  I  leave  you  so  ?  " 

"Yes— after—  — " 

"After?" 

' '  You  had  kissed  me ' ' 

Then  we  leaned  down  together  and  looked  into 
the  black  water  set  with  stars,  just  as  we  had 
bent  together  over  the  fountain  in  the  glade. 

' '  Do  you  remember  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Yes.  See,  the  water  is  inlaid  with  silver 
stars, — everywhere  white  lilies  floating  and  the 
stars  below,  deep,  deep  down." 

"  What  is  the  flower  you  hold  in  your  hand  ?  " 

"Whitewater-lotus." 

"Tell  me  about  Yue-I^aou,  Dzil  Nbu  of  the 
Kuen-Yuin,"  I  whispered,  lifting  her  head  so  I 
could  see  her  eyes. 

' '  Would  it  please  you  to  hear  ?  ' ' 

"Yes,  Ysonde." 

"  All  that  I  know  is  yours,  now,  as  I  am  yours, 
all  that  I  am.  Bend  closer.  Is  it  of  Yue-I^aou 
you  would  know  ?  Yue-L,aou  is  Dzil-Nbu  of  the 
Kuen-Yuin.  He  lived  in  the  Moon.  He  is  old 
—very,  very  old,  and  once,  before  he  came  to  rule 
the  Kuen-Yuin,  he  was  the  old  man  who  unites 
with  a  silken  cord  all  predestined  couples,  after 
which  nothing  can  prevent  their  union.  But  all 
that  is  changed  since  he  came  to  rule  the  Kuen- 
Yuin.  Now  he  has  perverted  the  Xin, — the  good 
genii  of  China, — and  has  fashioned  from  their 
warped  bodies  a  monster  which  he  calls  the  Xin. 
This  monster  is  horrible,  for  it  not  only  lives  in  its 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  7 1 

own  body,  but  it  has  thousands  of  loathsome 
satellites, — living  creatures  without  mouths, blind, 
that  move  when  the  Xin  moves,  like  a  mandarin 
and  his  escort .  They  are  part  of  the  Xin  although 
they  are  not  attached.  Yet  if  one  of  these  satel 
lites  is  injured  the  Xin  writhes  with  agony.  It 
is  fearful — this  huge  living  bulk  and  these 
creatures  spread  out  like  severed  fingers  that 
wriggle  around  a  hideous  hand." 

"  Who  told  you  this?" 

"  My  step-father." 

"  Do  you  believe  it  ?  " 

'  *  Yes.  I  have  seen  one  of  the  Xin' s  creatures. ' ' 

"Where,  Ysonde?" 

"  Here  in  these  woods." 

* '  Then  you  believe  there  is  a  Xin  here  ?  ' ' 

"  There  must  be, — perhaps  in  the  lake — 

"Oh,  Xins  inhabit  lakes  ?  " 

"Yes,  and  the  seven  seas.  I  am  not  afraid 
here." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  wear  the  symbol  oi  the  Kuen- 
Yuin." 

"  Then  I  am  not  safe,"  I  smiled. 

"Yes  you  are,  for  I  hold  you  in  my  arms. 
Shall  I  tell  you  more  about  the  Xin  ?  When  the 
Xin  is  about  to  do  to  death  a  man,  the  Yeth- 
hounds  gallop  through  the  night — 

"  What  are  the  Yeth-hounds,  Ysonde  ?  " 

"The  Yeth-hounds  are  dogs  without  heads. 
They  are  the  spirits  of  murdered  children,  which 


72  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

pass  through  the  woods  at  night,  making  a  wail 
ing  noise." 

1 '  Do  you  believe  this  ?" 

"  Yes,  for  I  have  worn  the  yellow  lotus " 

"  The  yellow  lotus " 

"Yellow  is  the  symbol  of  faith " 

''Where?" 

"  In  Yian,"  she  said  faintly. 

After  a  while  I  said,  '  *  Ysonde,  you  know  there 
is  a  God?" 

' '  God  and  Xangi  are  one. ' ' 

1 1  Have  you  ever  heard  of  Christ  ?  ' ' 

"  No,"  she  answered  softly. 

The  wind  began  again  among  the  tree  tops.  I 
felt  her  hands  closing  in  mine. 

"  Ysonde,"  I  asked  again,  "  do  you  believe  in 
sorcerers?  " 

"  Yes,  the  Kuen-Yuin  are  sorcerers  ;  Yue-Laou 
is  a  sorcerer." 

' '  Have  you  seen  sorcery  ?  ' ' 

"  Yes,  the  reptile  satellite  of  the  Xin " 

I  'Any  thing  else?" 

II  My  charm, — the  golden  ball,  the  symbol  of 
the  Kuen-Yuin.      Have  you  seen   it  change, — 
have  you  seen  the  reptiles  writhe ?  ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  I  shortly,  and  then  remained 
silent,  for  a  sudden  shiver  of  apprehension  had 
seized  me.  Barris  also  had  spoken  gravely, 
ominously  of  the  sorcerers,  the  Kuen-Yuin,  and  I 
had  seen  with  my  own  eyes  the  graven  reptiles 
turning  and  twisting  on  the  glowing  globe. 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  73 

"  Still,"  said  I  aloud,  "  God  lives  and  sorcery 
is  but  a  name." 

"Ah,"  murmured  Ysonde,  drawing  closer  to 
me,  '  *  they  say,  in  Yian,  the  Kuen-Yuin  live  ; 
God  is  but  a  name." 

"  They  lie,"  I  whispered  fiercely. 

"Be  careful,"  she  pleaded,  "they  may  hear 
you.  Remember  that  you  have  the  mark  of  the 
dragon's  claw  on  your  brow." 

"What  of  it  ?  "  I  asked,  thinking  also  of  the 
white  mark  on  Barris'  arm. 

"Ah  don't  you  know  that  those  who  are 
marked  with  the  dragon's  claw  are  followed  by 
Yue-I/aou,  for  good  or  for  evil, — and  the  evil 
means  death  if  you  offend  him  ?  ' ' 

' '  Do  you  believe  that  !  "  I  asked  impatiently. 

"  I  know  it,"  she  sighed. 

"Who  told  you  all  this?  Your  step-father? 
What  in  Heaven's  name  is  he  then, — a  China 
man  !" 

"  I  don't  know  ;  he  is  not  like  you." 

"Have — have  you  told  him  anything  about 
me?" 

' '  He  knows  about  you — no,  I  have  told  him 
nothing, — ah,  what  is  this — see — it  is  a  cord,  a 
cord  of  silk  about  your  neck — and  about  mine  !  ' ' 

' '  Where  did  that  come  from  ?  "  I  asked  aston 
ished. 

"  It  must  be — it  must  be  Yue-I/aou  who  binds 
me  to  you, — it  is  as  my  step-father  said — he  said 
Yue-L,aou  would  bind  us " 


74  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

11  Nonsense,"  I  said  almost  roughly,  and  seized 
the  silken  cord,  but  to  iny  amazement  it  melted 
in  my  hand  like  smoke. 

''What  is  all  this  damnable  jugglery!"  I 
whispered  angrily,  but  my  anger  vanished  as  the 
words  were  spoken,  and  a  convulsive  shudder 
shook  me  to  the  feet.  Standing  on  the  shore  of 
the  lake,  a  stone's  throw  away,  was  a  figure, 
twisted  and  bent, — a  little  old  man,  blowing 
sparks  from  a  live  coal  which  he  held  in  his 
naked  hand.  The  coal  glowed  with  increasing 
radiance,  lighting  up  the  skull-like  face  above  it, 
and  threw  a  red  glow  over  the  sands  at  his  feet. 
But  the  face  ! — the  ghastly  Chinese  face  on  which 
the  light  flickered, — and  the  snaky  slitted  eyes, 
sparkling  as  the  coal  glowed  hotter.  Coal !  It 
was  not  a  coal  but  a  golden  globe  staining  the 
night  with  crimson  flames, — it  was  the  symbol  of 
the  Kuen-Yuin. 

* '  See  !  See  ! ' '  gasped  Ysonde,  trembling  vio 
lently,  ' '  see  the  moon  rising  from  between  his 
fingers  !  Oh  I  thought  it  was  my  step-father  and 
it  is  Yue-Iyaou  the  Maker  of  Moons — no  !  no  !  it 
is  my  step-father — ah  God  !  they  are  the  same  ! ' ' 

Frozen  with  terror  I  stumbled  to  my  knees, 
groping  for  my  revolver  which  bulged  in  my 
coat  pocket ;  but  something  held  me — something 
which  bound  me  like  a  web  in  a  thousand 
strong  silky  meshes.  I  struggled  and  turned  but 
the  web  grew  tighter ;  it  was  over  us — all  around 
us,  drawing,  pressing  us  into  each  other's  arms 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  75 

until  we  lay  side  by  side,  bound  hand  and  body 
and  foot,  palpitating,  panting  like  a  pair  of 
netted  pigeons. 

And  the  creature  on  the  shore  below  !  What 
was  my  horror  to  see  a  moon,  huge,  silvery,  rise 
like  a  bubble  from  between  his  fingers,  mount 
higher,  higher  into  the  still  air  and  hang  aloft  in 
the  midnight  sky,  while  another  moon  rose  from 
his  fingers,  and  another  and  yet  another  until 
the  vast  span  of  Heaven  was  set  with  moons  and 
the  earth  sparkled  like  a  diamond  in  the  white 
glare. 

A  great  wind  began  to  blow  from  the  east  and 
it  bore  to  our  ears  a  long  mournful  howl, — a  cry 
so  unearthly  that  for  a  moment  our  hearts 
stopped. 

'  'The  Yeth-hounds  !  "  sobbed  Ysonde,  "do 
you  hear  ! — they  are  passing  through  the  forest ! 
The  Xin  is  near  !  " 

Then  all  around  us  in  the  dry  sedge  grasses 
came  a  rustle  as  if  some  small  animals  were 
creeping,  and  a  damp  acrid  odor  filled  the 
air.  I  knew  the  smell,  I  saw  the  spidery  crab- 
like  creatures  swarm  out  around  me  and  drag 
their  soft  yellow  hairy  bodies  across  the  shrinking 
grasses.  They  passed,  hundreds  of  them,  poison 
ing  the  air,  tumbling,  writhing,  crawling  with 
their  blind  mouthless  heads  raised.  Birds,  half 
asleep  and  confused  by  the  darkness  fluttered 
away  before  them  in  helpless  fright,  rabbits 
sprang  from  their  forms,  weasels  glided  away 


76  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

like  flying  shadows.  What  remained  of  the 
forest  creatures  rose  and  fled  from  the  loathsome 
invasion  ;  I  heard  the  squeak  of  a  terrified  hare, 
the  snort  of  stampeding  deer,  and  the  lumbering 
gallop  of  a  bear  ;  and  all  the  time  I  was  choking, 
half  suffocated  by  the  poisoned  air. 

Then,  as  I  struggled  to  free  myself  from  the 
silken  snare  about  me,  I  cast  a  glance  of  deadly 
fear  at  the  sorcerer  below,  and  at  the  same  mo 
ment  I  saw  him  turn  in  his  tracks. 

"  Halt !  "  cried  a  voice  from  the  bushes. 

"  Barris  !  "  I  shouted,  half  leaping  up  in  my 
agony. 

I  saw  the  sorcerer  spring  forward,  I  heard  the 
bang  !  bang  !  bang  !  of  a  revolver,  and,  as  the 
sorcerer  fell  on  the  water's  edge,  I  saw  Barris 
jump  out  into  the  white  glare  and  fire  again, 
once,  twice,  three  times,  into  the  writhing  figure 
at  his  feet. 

Then  an  awful  thing  occurred.  Up  out  of  the 
black  lake  reared  a  shadow,  a  nameless  shapeless 
mass,  headless,  sightless,  gigantic,  gaping  from 
end  to  end. 

A  great  wave  struck  Barris  and  he  fell,  another 
washed  him  up  on  the  pebbles,  another  whirled 
him  back  into  the  water  and  then, — and  then  the 
thing  fell  over  him, — and  I  fainted. 

*  *  #  *  *  # 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  77 

This,  then,  is  all  that  I  know  concerning  Yue- 
I^aou  and  the  Xin.  I  do  not  fear  the  ridicule  of 
scientists  or  of  the  press  for  I  have  told  the  truth. 
Barris  is  gone  and  the  thing  that  killed  him  is 
alive  to-day  in  the  Lake  of  the  Stars  while  the 
spider-like  satellites  roam  through  the  Cardinal 
Woods.  The  game  has  fled,  the  forests  around 
the  lake  are  empty  of  any  living  creatures  save 
the  reptiles  that  creep  when  the  Xin  moves  in  the 
depths  of  the  lake. 

General  Drummond  knows  what  he  has  lost  in 
Barris,  and  we,  Pierpont  and  I,  know  what  we 
have  lost  also.  His  will  we  found  in  the  drawer, 
the  key  of  which  he  had  handed  me.  It  was 
wrapped  in  a  bit  of  paper  on  which  was  written ; 

"  Yue-I,aou  the  sorcerer  is  here  in  the  Cardinal 
Woods.  I  must  kill  him  or  he  will  kill  me.  He 
made  and  gave  to  me  the  woman  I  loved, — he 
made  her, — I  saw  him, — he  made  her  out  of  a 
white  water-lotus  bud.  When  our  child  was 
born,  he  came  again  before  me  and  demanded 
from  me  the  woman  I  loved.  Then,  when  I  re 
fused,  he  went  away,  and  that  night  my  wife  and 
child  vanished  from  my  side,  and  I  found  upon 
her  pillow  a  white  lotus  bud.  Roy,  the  woman 
of  your  dream,  Ysonde,  may  be  my  child.  God 
help  you  if  you  love  her  for  Yue-L,aou  will  give, — 
and  take  away,  as  though  he  were  Xangi,  which 
is  God.  I  will  kill  Yue-L,aou  before  I  leave  this 
forest, — or  he  will  kill  me. 

"  FRANKLYN  BARRIS." 


78  The  Maker  of  Moons. 

Now  the  world  knows  what  Barris  thought  of 
the  Kuen-Yuin  and  of  Yue-L,aou.  I  see  that  the 
newspapers  are  just  becoming  excited  over  the 
glimpses  that  lyi-Hung-Chang  has  afforded  them 
of  Black  Cathay  and  the  demons  of  the  Kuen- 
Yuin.  The  Kuen-Yuin  are  on  the  move. 

Pierpont  and  I  have  dismantled  the  shooting- 
box  in  the  Cardinal  Woods.  We  hold  ourselves 
ready  at  a  moment's  notice  to  join  and  lead  the 
first  Government  party  to  drag  the  L,ake  of  the 
Stars  and  cleanse  the  forest  of  the  crab  reptiles. 
But  it  will  be  necessary  that  a  large  force  as 
sembles,  and  a  well-armed  force,  for  we  never 
have  found  the  body  of  Yue-L/aou,  and,  living  or 
dead,  I  fear  him.  Is  he  living  ? 

Pierpont,  who  found  Ysonde  and  myself  lying 
unconscious  on  the  lake  shore,  the  morning  after, 
saw  no  trace  of  corpse  or  blood  on  the  sands. 
He  may  have  fallen  into  the  lake,  but  I  fear  and 
Ysonde  fears  that  he  is  alive.  We  never  were 
able  to  find  either  her  dwelling  place  or  the  glade 
and  the  fountain  again.  The  only  thing  that 
remains  to  her  of  her  former  life  is  the  gold  ser 
pent  in  the  Metropolitan  Museum  and  her  golden 
globe,  the  symbol  of  the  Kuen-Yuin;  but  the 
latter  no  longer  changes  color. 

David  and  the  dogs  are  waiting  for  me  in  the 
court  yard  as  I  write.  Pierpont  is  in  the  gun 
room  loading  shells,  and  Howlet  brings  him  mug 
after  mug  of  my  ale  from  the  wood.  Ysonde 
bends  over  my  desk, — I  feel  her  hand  on  rrfy  arm, 


The  Maker  of  Moons.  79 

and  she  is  saying,  "Don't  you  think  you  have 
done  enough  to-day,  dear?  How  can  you  write 
such  silly  nonsense  without  a  shadow  of  truth 
or  foundation?'' 


THE:  SILENT  LAND. 


"  There  was  never  any  more  inception  than  there  is  now, 
Nor  any  more  youth  or  age  than  there  is  now  ; 
And  will  never  be  any  more  perfection  than  there  is 

now, 
Nor  any  more  heaven  or  hell  than  there  is  how." 

WAI/T  WHITMAN. 


THE  SILENT  LAND. 


"And  the  woman    fled    into  the  wilderness,   where 
she  hath  a  place  prepared  of  God." 

I. 

FERRIS  and  I  had  had  a  dispute,   a  bitter 
one,  and,  as  usual,  Ferris  had  pushed  his 
cap  over  his  eyes  until  the  hair  on  the  back 
of  his  head  stuck  out. 

<lYou   can't   do   it,"    he   said,    shoving    both 
hands  up  to  the  wrists  in  his  canvas  fishing-coat. 
"I'll  prove  it,"   said  I.     "What  a  stubborn 
mule  you  are,  Ferris  ! ' ' 

"Stubborn  nothing,"  he  retorted,    "you  and 
your  theories  must  have  your  little  airing,  I  sup 
pose,  but  I  don't  intend  to  assist." 
"  I  'm  right  sometimes,"  I  said. 
"Sometimes  you  're  wrong,  too,"  said  Ferris. 
Then  he  walked  off  toward  the  cliffs,  whis 
tling,  uncompromising,  untidy. 

"There  's  a  hole  in  your  leggings  !  "  I  called 
after  him,  but  he  did  not  deign  to  answer  me. 
"  Obstinate  ass,"   I  thought,  for  we  were  very 
83 


84  The  Silent  Land. 

fond  of  each  other,  ' '  if  he  wastes  his  time  with 
the  Silver  Doctor  he  '11  rue  it."  Then  I  looked 
at  Solomon  and  lighted  a  cigarette. 

Solomon  was  a  bird,  an  enervating  bird  of 
the  Ibis  species,  wrinkled  and  wizened,  like  the 
mummies  of  his  native  land,  which  was  Egypt. 
The  bird  was  mine,  a  sarcastic  tribute  from 
Ferris,  and  the  bird  and  the  sarcasm  both  bore 
directly  on  the  only  disputes  which  ever  arose 
between  Ferris  and  myself.  The  cause  of  these 
disputes  was  a  trout-fly,  an  innocent  toy  of  scarlet 
and  tinsel,  known  to  anglers  as  the  "  Red  Ibis." 
I  swore  by  it,  Ferris  swore  at  it.  In  the  long 
winter  nights  when  the  streams  gurgled  under 
the  frozen  forests  and  the  lake  was  a  sheet  of 
soggy  snow,  Ferris  and  I  loafed  before  the  fire 
pulling  tangled  masses  of  leaders  and  flies  about 
and  dragging  the  silken  lines  over  the  rugs  to 
hear  the  reels  click.  Every  fly  known  to  the 
brethren  of  the  angle  was  discussed — every  fly 
except  the  Red  Ibis.  We  both  honestly  tried  to 
avoid  this  bone  of  contention.  We  talked  of 
Duns  and  Hackles,  and  Spinners  and  Gnats,  but 
in  spite  of  every  precaution  the  Red  Ibis  would 
occasionally  rise  like  a  fiery  spectre  between  us, 
and  then  we  disputed  vehemently. 

' '  No  angler  with  a  rag  of  self-respect  would 
use  the  Ibis,"  said  Ferris,  with  that  obstinate 
shrug  which  added  gall  to  the  insult,  and  I — 
well,  the  crowning  insult  came  when  Ferris  sent 
to  Cairo  and  imported  a  live  Egyptian  Ibis  for  me. 


The  Silent  Land.  85 

"  Pull  out  his  tail  feathers  when  you  're  short 
of  Red  Ibis,"  gasped  Ferris,  weak  with  laughter, 
as  I  stood  silently  inspecting  the  bird  in  my  studio. 

"  I  '11  send  him  to  Central  Park,"  said  I,  swal 
lowing  my  wrath  ;  but  I  thought  better  of  it, 
and  Solomon,  the  wizened,  became  an  important 
member  of  my  household. 

The  bird  was  a  mystery.  I  never  cared  to 
encounter  his  filmy  eyes.  Centuries  seemed  to 
roll  away  when  he  unclosed  them,  visions  of 
tombs  and  obelisks  filled  my  mind — glimpses 
of  desert  sunsets  and  the  warm  waters  of  lazy 
rivers.  His  black  shrivelled  head,  bare  as  a 
skull,  lay  like  a  withered  gourd  among  the 
garish  flame-coloured  feathers  on  his  breast. 

"Solly,"  said  I,  when  Ferris  disappeared 
below  the  cliff,  ' '  do  you  want  a  frog  ?  ' ' 

The  bird  unclosed  one  eye.  I  went  to  a  pail 
of  water  in  which  I  kept  minnows,  and  Solomon 
followed  me,  solemnly  hopping. 

"  Help  yourself,  Solly,"  said  I,  uncovering  the 
pail. 

I  called  him  Solly  because  I  wished  to  put  my 
self  at  ease  with  this  relic  of  Kgyptian  Royalty. 
The  splendour  of  Pharo's  court  had  not  dimmed 
this  hoary  prophet's  eye,  which  was  piercing 
when  the  sleepy  film  left  it — piercing  enough 
to  make  me  feel  thousands  of  years  young,  and 
very  bourgeois.  In  vain  I  addressed  him  as 
Solly,  in  vain  I  gave  him  chocolate  creams, — he 
was  the  aristocrat,  the  venerable  high-priest  of 


86  The  Silent  Land. 

an  Empire  dead — and  I  was  his  man-servant,  his 
ass,  and  his  ox. 

Solomon  dabbed  once  or  twice  at  a  sportive 
minnow,  pecked  pensively  at  the  handle  of  the 
pail,  swallowed  a  pebble  or  two,  and  then,  ruffling 
his  scarlet  feathers,  sidled  aimlessly  back  into  the 
sedge  by  the  frog-pond.  I  watched  him  for 
awhile,  brooding  dreamily  among  the  rushes,  but 
he  paid  no  further  attention  either  to  me  or  to  the 
small  green  frogs  that  squatted  on  the  lily -pads  or 
floated  half  submerged,  watching  him  with  enor 
mous  eyes. 

A  noisy  blue-jay  flitted  through  the  orchard 
and  alighted  on  a  crab- apple  tree  solely  to  insult 
Solomon.  He  of  course  was  unsuccessful,  and 
his  language  became  so  utterly  unfit  for  publica 
tion  that  I  moved  away,  shocked  and  annoyed. 

The  sun  was  very  hot.  It  glittered  with  a 
blinding  light  across  the  rippling  pond,  where 
dragon-flies  darted  and  sailed  and  chased  each 
other  over  the  water,  or  flitted  among  the  clouds 
of  dancing  midges,  searching  for  prey. 

A  sweet  smell  came  to  me  from  orchard  and 
sedge ;  there  was  an  odour  of  scented  rushes  in 
the  air,  and  the  lingering  summer  wind  bore 
puffs  of  perfume  from  clover-fields  and  meadows 
fragrant  with  flowering  mint.  I  looked  again 
toward  the  cliffs.  Ferris  was  not  in  sight. 

"  Obstinate  mule,"  I  thought,  and,  picking  up 
my  rod  and  fly-book,  I  sauntered  toward  the 
forest. 


The  Silent  Land.  87 

"  Ferris,"  said  I  to  myself,  "is  after  that  big 
trout  by  the  Red  Rock  Rapids,  but  he  '11  never 
raise  him  with  a  Silver  Doctor,  and  he  '11  come 
home  in  a  devil  of  a  temper. ' ' 

I  sat  down  in  a  clump  of  sweet  fern  and  joined 
my  rod.  When  I  had  run  the  silk  through  the 
guides  and  had  fastened  the  nine-foot  leader,  I 
opened  my  fly-book  and  sought  for  a  Red  Ibis 
fly.  There  was  not  one  in  the  book. 

' '  I  must  send  to  New  York  to-morrow, ' '  I 
thought,  turning  the  aluminum  leaves  impa 
tiently  ;  ' '  fancy  my  being  out  of  Red  Ibis  ! ' ' 
I  selected  a  yellow  Oak  fly  for  the  dropper  and  a 
nameless  Gnat  for  the  hand-fly,  and,  drawing  the 
leader  down  to  the  reel,  started  on  again,  carrying 
my  rod  with  the  tip  behind  me. 

The  forest  was  dim  and  moist  and  silent. 
Where  the  sunshine  fell  among  the  ferns  a  few 
flies  buzzed  in  the  gilded  warmth ;  but  except 
for  this  and  a  strange  grey  bird  which  flitted  be 
fore  me  silently  as  I  walked,  there  was  no  sign 
of  life,  nothing  stirring,  not  a  rustle  among  the 
leaves,  not  a  movement,  not  a  bird-note. 

Over  moss  and  dead  leaves  aglisten  in  the  pale 
forest  light  I  passed, — over  crumbling  logs,  damp 
and  lichen- covered,  half  submerged  in  little  pools  ; 
and  the  musty  fragrance  of  the  forest  mould  set 
me  dreaming  of  dryads,  and  fauns,  and  lost 
altars,  whose  marbles,  stained  with  tender  green, 
glimmer  in  ancient  forests. 

This  belt  of  woods  was  always  silent  ;  I  often 


88  The  Silent  Land. 

wondered  why.  There  were  no  birds — none  ex 
cept  this  strange  grey  creature  which  kept  flitting 
ahead  of  me,  uttering  no  note.  It  was  the  first 
bird  I  had  ever  seen  in  the  western  forest  belt — 
the  first  bird  except  Solomon,  who  occasionally 
accompanied  me  on  my  trips  to  the  long  pool  in  the 
river  which  borders  the  wooded  belt  on  the  west. 

It  was  an  unknown  bird  to  me, — I  could  catch 
fleeting  glimpses  of  it,— and  its  long  slender  wings 
and  dark  eyes  brought  no  recollections  to  my 
mind. 

To  the  north,  south,  and  east  the  woods  were 
full  of  thrushes  and  wood-peckers  ;  full  of  game, 
too — grouse,  deer,  foxes,  and  an  occasional  mink 
and  otter,  but  the  shy  wood  creatures  left  the 
western  forest  belt  alone,  and  even  the  trout 
seemed  to  shun  the  dark  pools  where  the  river 
swept  the  edges  of  the  wood  until  it  curved  out 
again  by  Lynx  Peak.  I  say  the  trout  shunned 
it,  but  there  was  one,  a  monstrous  fish,  wily  and 
subtile,  that  lived  in  the  long  amber  pool  below. 
Early  in  the  season  Ferris  had  raised  him  with  a 
Silver  Doctor,  and  Ferris' s  madness  on  the  Silver 
Doctor  dated  from  that  moment.  His  mania  for 
this  fly  lead  him  to  use  it  in  season  and  out,  and 
no  amount  of  persuasion  or  of  ridicule  moved 
him. 

"  Because,"  said  I,  "  you  had  a  Silver  Doctor 
snapped  off  by  a  big  fish,  do  you  imagine  it 's  the 
only  fly  in  the  world  ?  ' ' 

"  It's  good  enough  for  me,"  he  said. 


The  Silent  Land.  89 

There  were  two  things  which  Ferris  used  to 
say  that  maddened  me.  One  was,  "  The  Silver 
Doctor 's  good  enough  for  me  ;  "  the  other  was, 
"  New  York  's  good  enough  for  me." 

We  never  discussed  the  latter  question  after 
Ferris  had  alluded  to  me  as  a  "  L,atin  Quarter 
Nondescript,"  but  the  battle  still  raged  over  the 
merits  of  the  Silver  Doctor  and  the  Red  Ibis. 

When  I  came  to  the  wooded  slope  which  over 
hung  the  river  I  buttoned  my  shooting  coat  and 
began  a  cautious  descent,  trailing  my  rod  care 
fully.  I  headed  for  the  foot  of  the  pool,  for  one 
of  my  theories,  which  ruffled  Ferris,  was  that  cer 
tain  pools  should  be  fished  up  stream.  This  was 
one  of  those  pools,  according  to  my  theory  ;  and 
when  I  had  reached  the  rocks  and  had  waded 
into  the  rushing  water,  I  faced  up  stream  and 
cast  straight  out  into  the  rapids  which  curled 
among  the  boulders  at  the  foot  of  the  pool. 

At  the  second  cast  I  hooked  a  snag  and  waded 
out  to  disengage  it.  Fumbling  about  under  the 
foaming  water  I  found  my  fly  imbedded  in  some 
thing  which  refused  to  give  way.  I  tugged  cau 
tiously  and  gently  ;  it  was  useless.  Then  I  rolled 
up  my  sleeve  and  plunged  my  arm  into  the  water 
up  to  the  shoulder.  This  time  it  did  give  way  ; 
I  drew  out  my  arm  and  held  up  something 
glistening  and  dripping,  in  which  my  hook  was 
firmly  imbedded.  It  was  a  shoe,  small,  pointed, 
high-heeled,  and  buckled  with  a  silver  buckle. 

"  This,"  said  I,  "is  most  extraordinary,"  and 


go  The  Silent  Land. 

I  sat  down  on  a  flat  rock,  holding  the  shoe  close  to 
my  eyes. 

"  Besnard — Paris,"  I  read  stamped  on  the  lin 
ing  over  the  heel.  And  the  buckle  was  of  ster 
ling  silver.  I  sat  for  a  moment,  thinking. 

Our  cottage,  Ferris' sand  mine,  was  the  only 
house  in  the  whole  region  that  I  knew  of,  except 
the  old  house  in  the  glade  by  the  White  Moss 
Spring.  That  was  unoccupied  and  had  been  for 
years — a  crumbling,  abandoned  farm,  tottering 
among  the  young  growth  of  an  advancing  forest. 
But  as  I  sat  thinking  I  remembered  early  in  the 
season  having  seen  smoke  above  the  trees  once 
when  we  were  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  White 
Moss  Spring,  and  I  recollected  that  Ferris  had 
spoken  of  poachers.  We  had  been  too  lazy  to  in- 
investigate,  too  lazy  even  to  remember  it  until,  as 
I  sat  there  holding  the  small  shoe,  the  incident  came 
back  to  me,  and  I  wondered  whether  anybody  had 
taken  up  an  abode  in  the  abandoned  farm. 

I  didn't  like  it.  The  forests  and  streams  be 
longed  to  Ferris  and  me,  and  although  up  to  the 
present  moment  it  had  not  been  necessary  to  em 
ploy  many  keepers,  I  began  to  fear  that  our  woods 
were  being  invaded  and  that  we  should  soon  be 
obliged  to  find  protection. 

I  looked  at  the  shoe,  turning  it  over  carefully 
in  my  hands.  It  was  new — had  scarcely  been  worn 
at  all. 

"  Pooh,"  I  thought,  "  the  owner  of  this  could 
scarcely  do  much  damage  among  the  game,  but 


The  Silent  Land.  91 

of  course  there  may  be  bigger  shoes  in  company 
with  this,  and  those  bigger  shoes  had  better  look 
out!" 

My  first  impulse  was  to  throw  the  shoe  into 
the  underbrush.  I  started  to  do  this,  and  then 
carefully  laid  it  down  on  a  sun- warmed  rock. 

"  l>t  it  dry,"  I  muttered  ;  "  it 's  evidence  for 
Ferris."  But  as  it  happened,  Ferris  was  not  des 
tined  to  see  the  shoe. 


II. 


1  FISHED  the  pool  twice,  once  up  and  once 
down,  and  heaven  knows  I  fished  it  consci 
entiously  ;  but  no  trout  rose  to  the  flies,  al 
though  I  changed  the  cast  half  a  dozen  times  and 
even  violated  my  feelings  by  tying  a  Silver  Doctor. 
It  was  true  I  glanced  up  and  down  the  river  to 
see  whether  Ferris  was  in  sight  before  I  did  so. 

"  The  wily  old  devil  won't  come  up,"  said  I  to 
myself,  meaning  the  trout ;  "  I  '11  give  him  a  rest 
for  a  while."  And  I  sat  down  on  the  rock  where 
the  pointed  shoe  was  drying  in  the  sun,  laying 
my  rod  beside  me. 

"What's  the  use  of  speculating  about  this 
shoe,"  I  thought,  and  straightway  began  to 
speculate. 

The  strange  grey  bird  with  the  slender  wings 
and  dark  eyes  slipped  through  the  undergrowth 
along  the  opposite  side  of  the  pool,  but  it  uttered 
no  call,  and  I  caught  only  fleeting  glimpses  of  it 
at  intervals.  Once,  for  a  moment,  it  flitted  quite 
near,  and  a  sudden  sense  of  having  seen  it  before 
came  over  me,  but  after  a  little  thinking  I  found 
myself  associating  it  with  a  rare  bird  I  had  once 
92 


The  Silent  Land.  93 

noticed  in  Northern  France,  and  of  course  it  was 
impossible  that  this  could  be  a  French  bird. 

"  It  was  an  association  of  ideas,"  said  I  to  my 
self,  looking  at  the  mark  in  the  slim  shoe.  ' '  Bes- 
nard — Paris."  And  I  began  speculating  upon  the 
owner  of  the  shoe. 

''Young?  Probably.  Slender?  Probably. 
Pretty?  The  deuce  take  the  shoe,"  I  muttered, 
picking  up  my  rod.  Presently  I  laid  it  down 
again,  softly. 

1 '  Now,  perhaps, ' '  said  I  to  myself,  ' '  this  little 
shoe  has  tapped  the  gravel  of  the  Luxembourg, 
patted  the  asphalt  of  the  Boulevard  des  Italians, 
brushed  the  lawns  of  the  Bois — ah  me  !  ah  me  ! 
—the  devil  take  the  shoe  !  ' ' 

The  sun  beat  down  upon  the  rock  ;  the  little 
shoe  in  my  hand  was  nearly  dry. 

"  No,"  said  I  to  myself,  "  I  '11  not  show  it  to 
Ferris.  And  I  '11  not  shove  it  into  my  pocket — 
no — for  if  Ferris  finds  it  he  '11  rag  me  to  death. 
I '11  throw  it  away."  I  stood  up. 

"  I  '11  just  throw  it  away,"  I  repeated  aloud  to 
encourage  myself,  for  I  didn't  want  to  throw  it 
away. 

"  One,  two,  three,"  said  I,  with  an  attempt  at 
carelessness  which  changed  to  astonishment  as  I 
raised  my  eyes  to  the  bank  above  whither  I  had 
intended  to  hurl  the  shoe. 

For  an  instant  I  stood  rigid,  my  right  hand 
clutching  the  shoe,  arrested  in  mid  air.  Then  I 
placed  the  shoe  very  carefully  upon  the  rock  be 
side  me  and  took  off  my  shooting-cap. 


94  The  Silent  Land. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  I,  "  I  did  not  see 
you. ' ' 

I  stood  silent,  politely  holding  my  shooting-cap 
against  my  stomach.  But  I  was  confused,  for  she 
had  answered  me  in  French,  pure  Parisian  French, 
and  my  ideas  were  considerably  unbalanced. 

I  am  afraid  I  stared  a  little.  I  tried  not  to. 
She  was  slender  and  very  young.  Her  dark  eyes, 
half  shadowed  under  black  lashes,  made  me  think 
of  the  strange,  dark-eyed  bird  that  had  followed 
rne.  She  sat  on  the  crooked  trunk  of  a  tree  over 
hanging  the  bank,  her  feet  negligently  crossed, 
her  hands  in  the  pockets  of  a  leather  shooting- 
jacket.  I  'm  afraid  to  say  how  short  her  skirts 
were, — but  of  course  this  is  the  age  of  bicycles 
and  shooting-kilts. 

"  Madame,"  I  said,  trying  to  keep  my  eyes 
from  one  small  stockinged  foot,  ' '  I  have  found  a 
shoe—" 

"  My  shoe,  Monsieur,"  she  said,  serenely. 

"  Permit  me,  madame,"  said  I — 

' '  Mademoiselle — ' '  said  she — 

"  Permit  me, — a  thousand  pardons,  Mademoi 
selle, — to  return  to  you  your  shoe." 

"  It  was  very  stupid  of  me  to  lose  it,"  said  she. 

"  It  is  nearly  dry,"  said  I ;  "  will  Mademoiselle 
pardon  the  uncommitted  stupidity  of  which  I  was 
nearly  guilty." 

"  You  were  going  to  throw  it  away,"  said  she. 

' '  I  almost  perpetrated  that  unpardonable 
crime — ' ' 


The  Silent  Land.  95 

"  Give  it  to  me,"  she  said,  with  a  gracious 
gesture. 

Now  when  she  smiled  I  smiled  too,  and  picking 
up  the  shoe  waded  across  the  pool  to  the  bank 
under  her. 

"  May  I  come  up  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Pardi,  Monsieur,  how  else  am  I  to  get  my 
shoe?" 

I  clambered  up,  hanging  to  limbs  and  branches. 
It  was  a  miracle  I  did  not  break  my  neck. 

"  Why  do  you  not  take  the  path  ?  "  she  asked. 
' '  Do  you  not  know  you  might  fall — and  all  for 
a  shoe?" 

"  But  such  a  shoe—" 

"  True,  the  buckle  is  silver—" 

' '  Which  I  claim  the  privilege  of  buckling, ' ' 
said  I,  dragging  myself  up  beside  her. 

She  deliberately  held  out  her  slim  stockinged 
foot,  and  I  slipped  the  shoe  on  it. 

The  silver  buckle  was  not  easily  buckled. 
There  were  difficulties — for  the  tongue  had  be 
come  bent  and  needed  straightening. 

' '  You  might  take  the  shoe  off  again  to  arrange 
the  buckle,"  she  said. 

"  I  can  straighten  it  without  that,"  said  I. 

When  at  last  the  buckle  was  clasped  we  had 
been  talking  so  long  that  I  had  told  her  my  name, 
my  residence,  my  profession,  and  more  or  less 
about  Ferris.  I  don't  know  why  I  told  her  all 
this.  She  seemed  to  be  interested.  Then  I  asked 
her  if  she  lived  at  the  "  Brambles." 


g6  The  Silent  Land. 

"  The  Brambles  ?  "  she  repeated,  looking  at  her 
shoes. 

"The  deserted  Farm  by  the  White  Moss 
Spring—" 

'  *  Yes — not  alone  ;  I  have  a  housekeeper. ' ' 

"Aged?" 

* '  Very — and  fierce.  But  I  shall  do  as  I 
please." 

4 '  Did  you  buy  the  house  ?  ' ' 

"  No.  It  was  empty,  and  I  walked  in.  Next 
day  they  sent  my  twelve  trunks  from  Lynne 
Centre.  The  furniture  was  good." 

"  And  you  have  been  there  for  two  months?  " 

"Yes.  I  have  a  horse  and  dog  cart  too.  Rose 
drives  to  Lynne  Centre  twice  a  week  for  the  mar 
keting.  I  think  I  shall  keep  a  cow — I  generally 
do  what  I  please.  I  choose  to  amuse  myself  with 
you  just  now." 

"This,"  said  I,  "is  a  very  strange  history; 
did  you  know  that  Mr.  Ferris  and  myself — 
existed?" 

"It  is  not  a  strange  history, — no,  I  once  saw 
your  house  as  I  passed  through  the  forest  belt, 
but  there  was  nobody  there  on  the  lawn  except 
an  ordinary  person  with  little  side  whiskers." 

"  Hewlett !  "    I  exclaimed. 

"  Comment?  "  she  asked. 

"  A  servant,  an  Knglishman." 

"  Probably,"  said  she,  looking  dreamily  at  me. 

Then  I  told  her  all  about  Ferris  and  myself; 
how  we  came  every  spring  to  the  Clover  Cottage 


The  Silent  Land.  97 

with  Hewlett,  a  cook,  and  three  dogs  as  retinue, 
how  we  fished  in  summer  and  shot  in  the  autumn, 
how  twice  a  year  men  came  all  the  way  from 
I/ynne  Center  to  house  our  hay  and  repair  dam 
ages,  how  the  game-keepers  lurked  at  the  mouth 
of  the  valley,  miles  to  the  south,  to  prevent 
poachers  from  entering,  but  we  concluded  it  was 
not  necessary  for  keepers  to  patrol  the  woods 
inside  the  valley. 

"  Now,"  I  said,  "the  poachers  are  in  our  very 
midst — here  established — and  such  dangerous 
poachers,  too  !  What  shall  we  do  with  them, 
Mademoiselle  ?  " 

' '  You  mean  me, "  she  said,  with  wide  open  eyes. 

"  No,"  said  I,  "  I  do  not  mean  you — you  are 
very  welcome  in  our  valley." 

"  But  I  am  sure  you  do  mean  me,"  she  said, 
smiling. 

Then  we  talked  of  other  things,  of  Paris  and 
France ;  of  trout,  and  flies,  and  Ferris,  of  Nor 
mandy,  and  the  beauty  of  the  world  ;  but  it  was 
nearly  five  o'clock  before  we  spoke  of  love. 

"  I  have  never  loved,"  she  said,  looking  at  me 
calmly. 

"  Oh,  how  unnecessary  !  "  I  thought,  for  I  had 
believed  her  clever. 

"But,"  she  continued,  gravely,  "I  think  it  is 
time  that  I  did." 

"I  think  so  too,"  said  I. 

"  I  should  like  to  fall  in  love,"  said  she ;  "  I 
have  nothing  else  to  do." 


98  The  Silent  Land. 

"  I  also  am  very  idle,"  I  said. 

' '  Then, ' '  said  she,  * '  the  opportunity  only  is 
lacking. ' ' 

I  think  I  muttered  something  about  poachers 
— I  was  not  perfectly  cool. 

"  Now,"  said  she,  "  I  know  you  mean  me  !  " 

"  Ah,"  said  I,  "  I  mean  a  keener  poacher  than 
you  or  I,  a  free  rover  more  to  be  dreaded  than  an 
army  of  riflemen." 

"Then  you  don't  mean  me,"  she  said. 

I  shook  my  head. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  she,  "I  should  very 
much  like  to  be  the  heroine  of  a  romance. ' ' 

"I  will  aid  you  to  be  one  !"  I  said,  hastily. 
We  had  known  each  other  nearly  three  hours. 

"  I/et  us,"  said  she,  "pretend  that  this  is  the 
forest  of  Versailles  in  the  time  of  I/mis  Quinze." 

"  ]>t  us  indeed  !  "  I  cried,  enthusiastically." 

"  And  you  are  a  Count " 

"  And  you  a  Marquise " 

"  Named  Diane  ;  it  is  my  real  name." 

"Diane." 

"And  you " 

"  My  real  name  is  Louis " 

"  It  will  do  ;  you  may  kiss  my  hand." 

I  wondered  just  where  she  was  going  to  draw 
the  line.  Then,  the  devil  prompting,  I  entered 
recklessly  into  this  most  extraordinary  adven 
ture. 

And  what  an  adventure  !  Words,  thoughts 
even  failed  me  as  I  looked  at  her.  This  wood- 


The  Silent  Land.  99 

land  maid  with  the  wonderful  eyes  !  There  was 
no  mistaking  the  challenge  in  her  eyes,  the  half- 
innocent  smile,  the  utter  disregard  for  every 
human  conventionality. 

"  How,"  thought  I — "  how  can  such  a  woman 
wear  a  childlike  face  !  "  I  had  known  coquettes, 
— many, — but  the  depth  of  this  strange  girl's 
recklessness  I  feared  to  sound — I  dreaded  almost 
to  understand. 

"  She  is  too  deep,"  said  I  to  myself — "  too  deep 
for  me, ' '  and  I  looked  her  questioningly  in  the 
eyes. 

I  don't  know  why  or  how, — I  never  shall  know 
probably,  but  a  sudden  conviction  seized  me  that 
she  was  as  innocent  as  she  looked.  Imagine  a 
man  coming  to  such  a  conclusion  !  I  felt  inclined 
to  laugh,  and  yet  I  was  as  firmly  convinced  as 
though  I  had  known  her  all  my  life. 

"You  may  kiss  my  hand,"  she  said,  and  held 
it  out  to  me. 

I  did.  I  wished  I  hadn't  a  moment  later,  for 
I  tumbled  head  over  heels  in  love  with  her  and 
fairly  gasped  at  the  idea. 

"  lyovers  in  the  Court  of  L,ouis  Quinze  resem 
bled  us,  I  think,"  she  said,  after  a  long  silence. 

"  We  will  try  to  make  the  resemblance  per 
fect,"  said  I,  taking  both  her  hands  in  mine. 

She  bent  her  head  a  little, — there  was  just  a 
shadow  of  resistance, — then  I  kissed  her  on  the 
lips. 

There  are  moments  in  a  man's  life  when  he 


TOO  The  Silent  Land. 

does  not  know  whether  he  is  a-foot  or  a-horse- 
back.  I  remember  that  I  sat  down  on  the  bank 
and  carefully  uprooted  several  ferns.  When  I 
had  regained  control  of  my  voice, — the  little  maid 
was  very  silent, — I  asked  her  to  tell  me  of  her 
self,  if  it  might  please  her  to  do  so. 

"  I  was  born,"  said  the  little  maid,  resting  her 
small  head  on  one  hand,  "in  Rouen.  Do  you 
know  Rouen?" 

"Yes." 

"  Papa  was  an  officer,  and  he  killed  his  general 
when  I  was  seven  years  old.  It  was  something 
about  Mama  ;  I  never  saw  her  again.  Then  we 
went  to  Canada  very  quickly  ;  Papa  died  there. 
I  had  been  in  a  convent  school ;  I  ran  away,  and 
went  to  New  York.  I  am  nineteen,  and  very 
reckless. ' ' 

"Yes,  Diane." 

1  *  I  have  a  great  deal  of  money  in  banknotes. 
It  was  Papa's.  I  have  never  counted  it — it  is  in 
a  big  trunk.  I  understand  English,  but  do  not 
care  to  speak  it.  I  do  not  care  what  becomes  of 
me  ;  I  wish  it  were  over — this  life.  You  are  the 
first  man  who  ever  kissed  me.  Do  you  believe 
me?" 

"Yes,  Diane. 

"I  wonder  you  do.  l>t  us  go  down  to  the 
river  where  the  sunlight  falls.  The  descent  is 
easy " 

"  Diane — you  must  not  go " 

"  With  you —  will  you  give  me  your  hand  ?  " 


The  Silent  Land.  101 


"" 


Come. 

"Did  you  see  that  shy  grey  bird?  -"  said  th£ 
little  maid,  hesitating  on  the  slope,  ncr  hand  ill 
in  mine. 

I  could  not  see  it,  for  we  had  already  begun  the 
descent. 


in. 


*  \  A  7H]SR^  the  mischief  have  you  been  all 

Y  y       day  ?  ' '  demanded  Ferris  that  evening 

as  we  sat  on  the  veranda  after  dinner. 

* '  Well, ' '  said  I  lighting  a  pipe,  * '  when  you 
had  your  fit  of  sulks  I  went  off  for  a  brace  of 
trout." 

"Did  you  see  anything  worth  seeing  ?  " 

"  I  saw  no  trout,"  said  I. 

"Unfortunate,  eh?" 

4 '  Oh  not  very, ' '  I  said,  looking  at  Solomon. 

"Not  very?" 

"  l,ook  at  that  ridiculous  bird,  Ferris." 

"Swallowed  a  frog  the  wrong  way,"  said 
Ferris,  watching  the  solemn  contortions  of  Solo 
mon  ;  "  he  looks  like  a  little  Jew  in  a  crimson 
overcoat  with  a  stomach  ache.  What  fly  did  you 
use,  lyouis?" 

"  K  very  thing  ;  could  n't  raise  a  fin." 

"  Oh,  you  've  been  trying  that  old  devil  down 
by  the  west  woods  !  I  should  think  you  'd  let 
him  alone  ;  it 's  useless,"  yawned  Ferris. 

"I'm  going  to  try  for  him  every  day  till  I  get 
him,"  said  I,  trying  not  to  lie  more  than  neces 
sary  :  "Of  course  you  '11  not  infringe ?  " 
102 


The  Silent  Land.  103 

"  Infringe  !  Not  much  !  You  can  have  the 
whole  west  woods  to  your  own  sweet  self;  but 
you  're  an  idiot  !  " 

"Not  at  all,"  said  I,  thankfully;  and  in  a 
burst  of  confidence  I  confessed  that  I  had  used  a 
Silver  Doctor. 

There  was  a  momentary  gleam  of  triumph  in 
Ferris' s  eyes,  but  he  was  very  decent  about  it  and 
asked  me  most  politely  for  the  loan  of  a  Red  Ibis. 
Oh  men  of  the  busy  world,  learn  courtesy  from 
the  angler  !  There  are  other  things  you  need  not 
learn  from  anglers. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  I,  more  touched  than  I 
had  been  for  a  long  time,  "  I  have  n't  a  Red  Ibis 
left.  I  shall  write  Conroy  to-night  before  I 
retire.  If  you  really  do  want  an  Ibis  I  will 
catch  Solomon  and  pluck  a  plume  from  his  tail 
feathers." 

"  I  don't  want  it  enough  to  inconvenience  you 
or  hurt  Solomon's  feelings, ' '  said  Ferris,  laughing. 

After  a  long  interval  of  silent  smoking  Ferris 
rose  and  yawned  at  the  moon. 

' '  Do  you  know  what  a  Spirit-bird  is,  Ferris  ?  ' ' 
I  asked,  rapping  my  pipe  on  the  arm  of  my  chair. 

' '  Spirit-bird — the  French  one — the  Oiseau 
Saint-Esprit  ?  Yes,  I've  seen  one — in  the  Vos- 
ges." 

"  Grey — with  slim  wings  and  big  dark  eyes  ?  " 

"That 's  the  bird,"  said  Ferris  ;  "  why  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  thought  I  saw  one  to-day.  Of  course 
that's  impossible." 


IO4  The  Silent  Land. 

"Of  course,"  said  Ferris,  yawning  again! 
"I'm  going  to  turn  in  ;  good-night,  old  chap." 

"  Good-night,"  said  I,  tapping  nervously  on  the 
veranda  with  my  pipe. 

Hewlett  came  out  a  few  moments  later  with 
my  wading-shoes  which  he  had  been  oiling. 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  are  the  hob-nails  all  right  ?  " 

"Seving  'ob  nails  is  h'out,  sir,"  replied  How- 
lett,  holding  up  the  shoes  for  my  inspection. 

"  Put  them  in  as  soon  as  they  're  dry.  Did 
you  oil  the  bamboo?  Good.  Is  my  lamp 
lighted  ?  Put  it  out — and  you  need  not  sit  up, 
Hewlett ;  I  'm  going  for  a  stroll." 

"  Thank  you  sir,"  said  Hewlett,—"  and  Solo 
mon,  sir?" 

Now  it  was  one  of  my  delights  to  see  Hewlett 
house  Solomon.  The  wily  Ibis  loved  to  snoop 
about  in  the  moonlight,  and  he  was  always  ready 
for  Hewlett  when  that  dignified  servant  came  to 
round  him  up. 

I  looked  at  Solomon,  who  stood  gloomily  brood 
ing  among  the  water-lilies. 

"  He  ought  to  be  in  bed/'  said  I. 

Hewlett  descended  the  veranda  steps  with 
arms  extended,  but  Solomon  sidled  out  into  the 
pond.  Hewlett  pleaded  earnestly.  He  flattered 
and  cajoled,  but  Solomon  was  obdurate. 

"  Nothink  I  say  do  move  'im,  sir!"  said 
Hewlett,  stiffly  ;  "  he  is  vicious  to-night,  sir." 

"  Then  take  the  boat,"  I  said. 

Howlett  in  a  boat  chasing  a  sulky  Ibis  was 


The  Silent  Land.  105 

one  of  those  rare  spectacles  that  few  are  permitted 
to  witness.  Once  a  week  Solomon  turned  ' '  vi 
cious  "  and  then,  at  Ferris' s  and  my  suggestion, 
Howlett  took  to  the  boat.  A  terrestrial  Hewlett 
was  solemnly  ludicrous,  but  an  aquatic  Howlett 
was  impossible.  Of  course  Ferris  and  I  never 
laughed — that  is,  aloud,  but  we  usually  felt  rather 
weak  after  it  was  over. 

In  the  course  of  half  an  hour  Solomon,  mad, 
wet,  and  rumpled  was  cornered  by  Howlett  and 
clasped  to  his  stiff  shirt  front,  muddy,  bedraggled, 
and  kicking. 

"Are  you  not  mortified,  you  bad  bird  ?  "  said  I, 
as  Howlett  passed  toward  the  kitchen  where  Kitty 
the  cook  was  airing  his  straw-thatched  house. 

"A  vicious  bird,  sir,  good-night,  sir,"  mur 
mured  Howlett. 

*  *  Good-night,  Howlett ;  breakfast  at  seven  to 
morrow,"  said  I,  and  sauntered  out  into  the 
moonlit  valley. 

I  had  been  walking  almost  half  an  hour  when 
it  occurred  to  me  that  I  should  be  in  bed. 

"What  the  deuce  am  I  sprinting  about  the 
valley  at  this  hour  for  ? "  I  thought,  looking 
around. 

Over  the  shadowy  meadows  the  night  mist 
hung,  silvered  by  the  moonlight,  and  I  heard 
the  meadow-brook  rippling  through  the  sedge. 
Slender  birches  glimmered  among  the  alders,  and 
all  the  little  poplar  leaves  were  quivering,  but  I 
felt  no  breath  of  air. 


io6  The  Silent  Land. 

Where  the  dark  forest  fringed  the  meadow  I 
saw  the  moonbeams  sparkling  on  lonely  pools, 
but  the  depths  of  the  woodland  were  black  and 
impenetrable,  and  the  forest  itself  was  vague  as 
the  mist  that  shrouded  it. 

For  a  long  time  I  stood,  looking  at  the  stars 
and  the  mist,  and  little  by  little  I  came  to  under 
stand  why  I  was  there  alone. 

I  knew  I  should  go  on,  I  wished  to,  but  I 
lingered  in  the  moonlight  staring  at  earth  and 
sky  until  something  moved  in  the  thicket  beside 
me,  and  I  followed  it,  knowing  it  was  the  Spirit- 
bird. 

When  I  entered  the  forest  I  could  scarcely  see 
my  hand,  but  I  felt  a  trodden  path  beneath  my 
feet,  and  I  heard  before  me  the  whisper  of  soft 
wings,  and  presently  I  heard  the  river,  rushing 
through  rocks  of  the  western  forest,  and  when  I 
came  to  the  wooded  bank  the  moonlight  fell  all 
around  me. 

There  was  a  narrow  strip  in  the  forest,  over 
grown  with  silver  birch  and  poplar  and  lighted 
by  the  moon,  but  I  searched  it  in  vain,  up  and 
down,  up  and  down,  always  with  the  whisper  of 
soft  wings  in  my  ears. 

At  last  I  called,  "  Diane,"  and  before  I  called 
again,  her  hands  lay  close  in  mine. 

*  #  *  *  *  * 

"I  came,"  said  the  little  maid,  "because  you 
were  coming." 

"  Who  told  you  I  was  coming  ?  " 


The  Silent  Land.  107 

"  Told  me  ?  No  one  told  me.  Rose  is  asleep. 
Why  did  you  come  ?  ' ' 

' '  Why  did  you,  Diane  ?  ' ' 

"  I  ?  Because  you  came.  How  did  you  find 
my  bower  ?  ' ' 

' '  Your  bower,  Diane  ? ' ' 

"It  is  yours  I  know  ;  I  call  it  mine ;  I  call  it 
the  Silent  Land." 

"  It  is  very  silent,'*  I  said. 

"It  is  always  silent — no  birds,  not  even  the 
noise  of  the  water.  Do  you  think  it  is  sad  ? 
There  are  times  when  sounds, — the  song  of  living 
creatures  and  the  countless  movements  of  things 
that  live,  trouble  me.  Then  I  come  here.  There 
are  flowers." 

"The  air  is  very  sweet,  too  sweet.  What  is 
the  perfume  ?  The  trees  are  heavy  with  fragrance. 
Ah  ! — are  you  tired,  Diane  ?  " 

' '  No — it  is  the  odour  of  blossoms  ;  I  sleep  here 
sometimes." 

' '  Your  hair  is  loose — how  long  it  is  !  Is  it 
the  perfume  from  your  hair — is  it  your  breath — ' ' 

' '  The  blossoms  are  very  sweet ;  the  moon  has 
gone." 

"  There  is  a  star, — how  soft  your  breath  is." 

"  I  do  not  see  the  star  ;  where,  Louis  ?  " 

"  It  is  there  ; — clouds  are  veiling  it ; — there  is 
a  mist  over  all — ' ' 

"  It  is  my  hair — over  your  eyes." 


IV. 


"J  JOWLETT,"  said  I,  one  warm  afternoon, 

I~H  ' '  Solomon  is  unendurable  :  he  follows 
me  everywhere,  and  I  wish  you  to  see 
that  he  minds  his  own  business." 

"A  hobstinate  bird,  sir,"  said  Howett,  "and 
vicious  when  crossed, — which  I  scorn  'is  h' anger, 
—beg  pardon  sir, — for  'e's  took  to  biting  wen  'is 
vittles  disagrees." 

"Has  he  bitten  you?" 

"  Twice,  sir, — which  'appily  my  h'eyes  is  hun- 
injured,  though  h' aimed  at  by  'is  beak." 

"This  is  intolerable,"  said  I;  "you  must 
punish  him,  Howlett." 

"'Ow,  sir?" 

"  Tie  him  up  when  he  bites.  Have  those  flies 
come  from  Conroy's  ?  " 

"  Nothink  'as  came,  sir." 

"Where  is  Mr.  Ferris?" 

"Mr.  Ferris  is  a  whipping  of  the  h' Amber  Pool 
sir,  with  three  sea-trout  to  the  good  and  a  brace 
of  square  tails.  Solomon  followed  'im,  sir,  and  is 
h' observing  the  sport." 

* '  Then  I  can  get  away  without  that  red  feath- 
108 


The  Silent  Land.  109 

ered  Paul  Pry  tiptoeing  after  me,"  I  thought, 
and  sent  Hewlett  for  my  rod-case. 

"  Tell  Mr.  Ferris,  when  he  returns,  that  I  may 
not  be  back  until  dinner,"  I  said,  when  Howlett 
brought  the  case. 

I  selected  a  four-ounce  split  bamboo,  pocketed 
my  fly-book  and  a  tin  box  of  floating  flies  for  dry 
fishing,  picked  up  a  landing-net,  and  walked 
away  toward  the  western  woodland,  whistling.  I 
had  not  fished  for  three  weeks,  although  every  day 
I  went  away  into  the  western  woods  with  rod  and 
creel.  Ferris  laughed  at  my  infatuation  for  the 
long  pool  where  the  great  fish  lay  and  jeered  at 
me  when  I  returned  evening  after  evening  with 
no  trout,  although  the  river,  except  the  western 
stretch,  was  full  of  trout.  He  had  never  come  to 
the  pool, — I  should  have  seen  him  from  the  Silent 
Land  if  he  had, — but  Solomon  sneaked  after  me 
on  several  occasions.  Once  I  caught  him  craning 
his  neck  and  peering  into  the  bower, — our  bower 
— and  as  I  did  not  care  to  have  him  pilot  Ferris 
thither,  I  hustled  him  off. 

The  woods  were  fragrant  and  warm,  stained  by 
the  afternoon  sun  ;  the  quiet  murmur  of  the  brook 
came  to  me  from  leafy  thickets  as  I  walked,  and  I 
heard  the  river  rushing  in  the  distance  and  the 
summer  wind  among  the  pines.  White  clouds 
shimmered  in  the  blue  above,  sailing,  sailing  God 
knows  where,  but  they  passed  across  the  azure, 
one  by  one,  drifting  to  the  south,  and  I  watched 
them  with  the  vague  longing  that  comes  to  men 
who  watch  white  sails  at  sea. 


no  The  Silent  Land. 

I  had  turned  my  steps  toward  the  long  pool,  for 
I  had  decided  to  fish  that  afternoon,  wishing  to 
redeem  my  words  to  Ferris — at  least  in  part ;  but 
as  I  stepped  across  the  trail  I  heard  the  sound  of 
wings,  and  a  shadow  glided  in  front  of  me  toward 
the  forest.  It  was  always  so  from  the  first,  and 
now,  as  always,  I  turned  away,  following  un- 
questiouingly  the  Spirit-bird.  The  noise  of  the 
river  ceased  as  I  entered  the  Silent  L,and.  For 
an  instant  the  grey  bird  hovered  high  in  the  sun 
shine,  then  left  me  alone. 

I  threw  myself  full  length  upon  the  blossoming 
bank  and  waited,  chin  on  hand.  And  as  I  waited, 
she  came  noiselessly  across  the  moss,  so  quietly, 
so  silently  that  I  saw  her  only  when  her  fingers 
touched  mine. 

' '  It  has  been  a  long  time, ' '  we  said  ;  and  ;  '  *  Did 
you  sleep  ?  ' '  and  ;  ' '  When  did  you  awake  ?  ' ' 

Then  we  asked  each  other  a  thousand  little 
questions  which  are  asked  when  lovers  meet,  and 
we  answered  as  lovers  answer.  We  spoke  of  the 
Spirit-bird  as  we  always  did,  wondering,  and  she 
told  me  how  that  morning  it  had  tapped  upon  her 
window  as  the  day  broke. 

"  Rose  did  not  hear  it,"  she  said,  "but  I  was 
already  awake  and  thinking." 

"  I  awoke  at  sunrise  too,"  I  said  ;  "  for  a  mo 
ment  I  thought  it  was  a  swallow  in  the  chimney 
that  fluttered  so— " 

"  The  Spirit-bird  flies  swiftly  when  I,ove  is 
dreaming," — that  is  a  very  old  proverb  of  Nor- 


The  Silent  Land.  1 1 1 

mandy.  What  shall  we  do,  L,ouis — there  is  so 
much  to  do  and  so  little  time  in  life  ! — I  brought 
my  lute — ah  !  you  are  laughing  ! ' ' 

' '  The  lute  is  such  an  old-fashioned  toy  ;  I 
didn't  know  you  played.  Will  you  sing  too, 
Diane  ?  Something  very  old,  older  than  the 
lute." 

"  I  learned  a  song  this  morning  because  I 
thought  you  would  care  for  it.  That  is  why  I 
dared  to  bring  my  lute  into  the  Silent  I^and.  The 
song  is  called,  "  Tristesse." 

Then  the  little  maid  sat  up  among  the  blossoms 
and  touched  the  soft  strings,  singing  : 

"  J'ai  perdu  ma  force  et  ma  vie, 
Et  mes  amis  et  ma  gaite"  ; 
J'ai  perdu  jusqu'  &  la  fierte" 
Qui  faisait  croire  a  mon  ge*me. 

Quand  j'ai  connu  la  Ve*rite* 
J'ai  cru  que  c'e"tait  une  amie  ; 
Quand  je  1'ai  comprise  et  sentie, 
J'en  etais  dej&  de"goute\ 

Et  pourtant  elle  est  e*ternelle 
Et  ceux  qui  se  sont  passes  d'elle 
Ici-bas  ont  tout  ignore*. 

Dieu  parle,  il  faut  qu'on  lui  re*ponde  ; 
I>e  seul  bien  qui  me  reste  au  monde 
Est  d'avoir  quelquefois  pleure*. 


H2  The  Silent  Land. 

"That  is  all,"  said  the  little  maid. 

' '  Sing,  Diane, ' '  I  said,  but  I  scarcely  heard  my 
own  voice. 

She  laughed  and  bent  above  me  with  a  grace 
ful  gesture.  "  Not  that,"  she  said,  "  for  you  at 
least  are  not  sad.  There  is  a  chansonnette, — 
shall  I  sing  again  ? — then  be  very  still,  here  at  my 
feet.  Do  you  not  think  my  lute  is  sweet  ?  " 

"  Je  voudrais  pour  moi  qu'il  fut  toujours  f£te 
Et  tourner  la  tete 
Aux  plus  orgueilleux  ; 

fetre  en  meme  temps  de  glace  et  de  flamme, 
I,a  liaine  dans  1'dme, 
I/ amour  dans  les  yeux." 

"  You,  Diane  ?  "  I  whispered  ;  but  she  smiled, 
and  the  mystery  of  love  veiled  her  dark  eyes ; 
and  she  sang  : 

"  Je  ne  voudrais  pas  &  la  contredanse, 
Sans  quelque  prudence 
lyivrer  mon  bras  nu 

Puis,  au  cotillion,  laisser  ma  main  blanche 
Trainer  sur  la  manche 
Du  premier  venu." 

"  Si  mon  fin  corset,  si  souple  et  si  juste, 
D'un  bras  trop  robuste 
Se  sentait  serre", 

J'aurais,  je  1'avoue,  une  peur  mortelle 
Qu'un  bout  de  dentelle 
N'en  fut  de"chire\" 


The  Silent  Land.  113 

She  looked  at  me  with  soft,  unfathomable  eyes 
and  touched  the  lute.  When  I  moved  she  started 
from  her  reverie  with  a  gay  little  nod  to  me  : 

"  Quand  on  est  coquette,  il  faut  etre  sage, 
I/oiseau  de  passage 
Qui  vole  £  plein  cceur 
Ne  dort  pas  en  Pair  comme  une  hirondelle, 
Et  peut,  d'un  coup  d'aile 
Briser  une  fleur  !  " 

' '  Sing, ' '  I  said  in  a  changed  voice. 

"  I  have  sung,"  she  said,  and  laid  her  lute  in 
my  hands.  But  I  knew  nothing  of  minstrelsy 
and  lay  silent,  idly  touching  the  strings. 

She  had  fashioned  for  her  fair  head  a  wreath  of 
sweet-fern  twined  with  clustered  buds,  white  as 
snow  and  faintly  perfumed. 

"So  I  am  crowned,"  she  said,  <c  a  princess  in 
the  Silent  L,and.  Where  I  step,  all  things  green 
shall  flourish ;  where  I  turn  my  eyes,  blossoms 
shall  open  in  the  summer  wind  ; — am  I  not 
queen  ? ' ' 

"  Will  you  not  sing  again,  Diane  ?  " 

"  No,  it  pleases  me  to  hear  a  legend  now.  You 
may  begin,  I^ouis. " 

"  Which— the  Were- wolf  or  the  Man  in  Pur 
ple  Tatters  or  the— " 

"  No,  no — something  new." 

"The  Seventh  Seal?" 

"Begin  it." 

' '  And  when  he  opened  the  Seventh  Seal  there 
was  silence  in  Heaven — ' ' 


H4  The  Silent  Land. 

"Dear  Saints,  have  we  not  silence  enough  in 
the  Silent  Land?  Tell  me  about  battles." 

' ' '  And  the  sound  of  their  wings  was  as  the 
sound  of  chariots  of  many  horses  running  to  bat 
tle.'  I  could  tell  you  about  battles,  Diane." 

"Tell  me, — don't  move  your  arm, — tell  me  of 
battles,  Louis." 

"  There  was  once  a  King  in  Carcosa,"  I  began. 
But  the  little  maid  was  already  asleep. 

I  thought  I  heard  a  step  in  the  undergrowth 
and  listened. 

The  forest  was  silent. 


V. 


WHEN  we  awoke  it  was  night.  Down 
from  the  dark  heavens  a  great  star 
fell,  burning  like  a  lamp.  Above  the 
low-hanging  branches,  sombre,  drooping,  heavy 
with  fragrance,  a  misty  darkness  lay  like  a  vast 
veil  spread. 

In  the  stillness  I  heard  her  quiet  breathing,  but 
we  did  not  speak. 

Silence  is  a  Prophet,  unveiling  mysteries. 

Then,  through  the  forest,  we  heard  the  sound 
of  wings,  and  as  we  moved,  stepping  together  into 
the  shadows,  the  moon  rose  above  Lynx  Peak, 
gigantic,  golden,  splendid. 

So  we  passed  out  of  the  forest  into  the  star-lit 
night. 


VI. 


THE  skies  were  leaden,    the  watery  clouds 
hung  low  over  the  valley,  and  a  wet  wind 
blew  from  the  west,  ruffling  the  long  pool 
where  Diane  stood.     Kilted  and  capped  in  tweeds, 
creel  swinging  with  every  movement  of  the  rod 
which  swayed  and  bent  with  her  bending  wrist, 
she  moved  from  ripple  to  shallow,  wading  noise 
lessly  while  the  silken  line  whistled  and  the  gay 
flies    chased  each  other   across  the  wind-lashed 
pool. 

We  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  glancing  at  each 
other  when  the  light  cast  struck  the  water. 

' '  Under  the  alders  Diane — ' '  I  said  ;  '  *  have 
you  changed  the  Grey  Dun  for  the  Royal  ?  ' ' 

"  No,  what  is  your  new  cast?  " 

' '  Emerald  and  Orange  Miller — I  shall  tie  an 
Alder-fly  in  place  of  the  Miller.  Do  you  think 
the  water  warrants  a  cast  of  three  ?  ' ' 

"  It  is  rough  ;  I  don't  know, — L,ouis,  was  that 
an  offer  ?  ' ' 

"  I  think  it  was  the  spray  from  the  rapids. 
Shall  we  move  up  a  little  ?  Do  you  feel  the  chill 
of  the  water?" 

116 


The  Silent  Land.  1 1 7 

"  I  am  cold  to  my  knees,"  said  the  little  maid, 
* ( the  river  is  rising  I  think — ah,  what  was 
that?" 

"  Nothing, — you  touched  a  floating  leaf  in  the 
swirl." 

*  *  Splash  !  "  A  great  fish  flopped  over  in  the 
pool,  a  trout,  lazy,  unwieldy,  monstrous. 

' '  Oh  !  he  missed  it !  "  cried  Diane,  turning  a 
little  white. 

"Cast  again,"  I  whispered,  tossing  my  rod 
onto  the  sandy  beach  and  unslinging  my  landing- 
net. 

Trembling  a  little  with  excitement  she  cast 
across  the  swirl,  once,  twice,  twenty  times,  but 
the  monster  was  invisible.  Somewhere  in  the 
dusky  depths  of  that  amber  well  the  fierce  fish 
lay  watching  the  lightly  dropping  flies,  unmoved. 
Then  we  changed  the  cast ;  I  emptied  my  fly- 
book,  but  nothing  stirred  except  the  hurrying 
water,  curling,  gurgling,  tumbling  through  the 
rocks.  Finally  I  broke  the  silence. 

' '  Diane,  it  was  the  spinner  that  he  rose  to.  He 's 
after  something  redder.  Have  you  a  Scarlet  Ibis?" 

"No— have  you?" 

I  almost  groaned,  for  Conroy's  flies  had  not 
arrived,  and  I  had  n't  an  Ibis  in  the  world. 

After  a  while  she  reeled  in  her  silken  line,  and 
we  waded  to  the  sandy  beach  and  sat  down. 

"  Oh,  the  pity  of  it, ' '  sighed  Diane  ;  ' '  never  have 
I  seen  such  a  trout  before.  I  suppose  it  is  use 
less, 


n8  The  Silent  Land. 

I  sat  moodily  poking  holes  in  the  sand  with 
the  butt  of  my  landing-net. 

We  spoke  of  other  things  for  a  time,  sinking 
our  voices  below  the  roar  of  the  river.  Presently 
a  sunbeam  stole  through  the  vapour  above,  light 
ing  the  depths  of  the  dark  pool.  And  all  at  once 
we  saw  the  trout,  hanging  just  above  the  pebbly 
bottom  ;  we  saw  the  scarlet  fins  move,  the  great 
square  tail  waving  gently  in  the  current,  the  mot 
tled  spotted  back,  the  round  staring  eyes.  The 
swelling  of  the  gills  was  scarcely  perceptible,  the 
broad  mouth  hardly  moved. 

For  a  long  time  we  sat  silent,  fascinated  ;  then 
something  stirred  behind  us  on  the  beach  and  we 
slowly  turned.  It  was  Solomon. 

"  Ciel  !  "  faltered  Diane,  "  what  is  that?  " 

"  My  bird — an  Egyptian  Ibis,"  I  whispered, 
laughing  silently  ;  ' '  he  has  followed  me,  after 
all." 

Solomon  ruffled  his  scarlet  plumes,  blinked  at 
me,  scratched  his  head  with  his  broad  foot, 
pecked  at  a  bit  of  mica,  and  took  two  solemn 
steps  nearer. 

"  Diane,"  said  I,  suddenly,  "  I  '11  get  a  red  fly 
for  you ;  don't  move — the  bird  will  come  close 
to  us." 

But  Solomon  was  in  no  hurry.  Inch  by  inch 
he  sidled  nearer,  dallying  with  bits  of  moss  and 
shining  pebbles,  often  pausing  to  reflect,  but 
gradually  approaching,  for  his  curiosity  concern 
ing  Diane  was  great. 


The  Silent  Land.  1 1 9 

"  He  looks  as  if  lie  had  stepped  off  an  obelisk," 
murmured  Diane ;  "I  have  seen  hieroglyphics 
that  resembled  him.  Oh,  what  a  prehistoric  head 
— so  old,  so  old  ! ' ' 

"  His  name  is  Solomon,"  I  whispered.  "  Solo 
mon  in  all  his  glory  was  not  arrayed  like  one  of 
these.  I  'm  going  to  have  a  small  bit  of  Solo 
mon's  glory — sh — h  !  ah  !  I  've  got  him  !  " 

It  was  over  in  a  second,  and  I  do  not  believe  it 
was  painful.  There  was  a  flurry  of  sand,  a  furi 
ous  flapping  of  name-coloured  wings,  a  squawk  ! 
a  smothered  laugh — nothing  more. 

Mortified,  furious,  Solomon  marched  off,  shak 
ing  the  river  sand  from  wing  and  foot,  and  Diane 
and  I,  with  tears  of  laughter  in  our  eyes,  wound 
the  scarlet  feather  about  a  spare  hook,  tied  it 
close  with  a  thread  from  my  coat,  and  whipped 
it  firmly  to  the  shank.  I  looped  the  improvised 
fly  to  Diane's  leader,  and  she  shook  the  line  free. 
The  reel  sang  a  sweet  tune  as  she  drew  the  silk 
through  the  guides,  and  presently  she  motioned 
me  to  follow  her  out  into  the  rippling  shallows, 
and  I  went,  swinging  my  landing-net  to  my 
shoulder.  She  cast  once.  The  fly  struck  the 
swirl  and  sank  a  little,  but  she  drew  it  to  the  sur 
face  and  the  current  swept  it  under  the  alders. 
For  a  moment  it  sank  again  ;  then  the  ripples 
parted,  and  a  broad  crimson-flecked  side  rolled 
just  below  the  surface  of  the  water.  At  the  same 
moment  the  light  rod  curved,  deeply  quivering, 
the  reel  screamed  like  the  wind  in  the  chimney, 


1 20  The  Silent  Land. 

and  the  straining  line  cut  through  the  water, 
moving  up  the  pool  with  lightning  speed. 

' '  Strike  !  "  I  cried,  and  she  struck  heavily, 
but  the  reel  sang  out  like  a  whistling  buoy,  and 
the  fish  tumbled  into  the  churning  water  under 
the  falls  at  the  head  of  the  pool. 

"Now,"  said  Diane,  with  a  strange  quiet  in 
her  voice,  "  I  suppose  he  is  gone,  L,ouis." 

But  the  vicious  tug  and  long,  fierce  strain  con 
tradicted  her,  and  I  stepped  back  a  pace  or  twG 
to  let  her  fight  the  battle  to  the  bitter  end. 

The  struggle  was  splendid.  Once  I  believe 
she  became  a  little  frightened, — the  rod  was  stag 
gering  under  the  furious  fish, — and  she  spoke  in 
a  queer,  small  voice:  "Are  you  there,  I/mis?" 

"  I  am  here,  Diane." 

"Close  behind?" 

"Close  behind." 

She  said  nothing  more  until  the  great  fish  lay 
floating  within  reach  of  my  net. 

* '  Now  ! ' '  she  gasped. 

It  was  done  in  a  second ;  and,  as  I  bore  the 
deep-laden  net  to  the  beach,  I  caught  a  fleeting 
glimpse  of  a  figure  among  the  trees  on  the  bank 
above.  Diane  was  kneeling  breathlessly  on  a 
rock  beside  me ;  she  did  not  see  the  figure.  I 
did,  for  an  instant.  It  was  Ferris. 


VII. 


DINNER  was  over.  Ferris  and  I  lingered 
silently  over  the  Burgundy,  and  Howlett 
hovered  in  the  corner  with  a  decanter  of 
port  until  Ferris  shook  his  head. 

It  had  been  a  silent  dinner.  Ferris  tried  to  be 
cordial,  and  failed.  Then  he  tried  to  be  indiffer 
ent,  with  better  success.  We  exchanged  a  word 
or  two  concerning  a  new  keeper  who  was  to  be 
stationed  at  the  notch  in  the  north,  and  I  spoke 
to  Howlett  about  cleaning  the  lamps. 

Neither  of  us  mentioned  rods  or  trout,  although 
Howlett  had  served  us  a  delicious  sea-trout  that 
evening  which  had  fallen  to  Ferris' s  rod,  over 
which  we  ordinarily  should  have  exulted. 

Ferris  of  course  knew  that  I  had  seen  him  among 
the  trees  on  the  bank  above  the  long  pool.  It  was 
my  place  to  speak  ;  we  both  understood  that,  but  I 
did  not.  What  was  there  to  say?  Suppose  I  should 
go  back  to  the  beginning  and  tell  him — not  all, 
but  all  that  I  was  bound  in  honour  to  tell  him. 
What  would  he  think  if  I  spoke  of  the  Spirit-bird, 
of  the  Silent  I^and,  of  my  long  deception  ?  An 
explanation  was  due  him — I  felt  that  with  a 


122  The  Silent  Land. 

vague  sense  of  anger  and  humiliation.  For  weeks 
I  had  abandoned  him  ;  I  never  thought  about  his 
being  lonely,  but  I  knew  now  that  he  had  felt  it 
deeply.  Oh,  it  was  the  underhand  part  of  the 
business  that  sickened  me,  the  daily  deceit,  the 
double  dealing.  Ferris  was  no  infant.  A  word 
would  have  been  enough.  I  had  never  by  sign 
or  speech  spoken  that  word  which  would  at  least 
have  set  me  right  with  him,  and  which  I  could 
have  spoken  honourably.  And  moreover,  if  I  had 
spoken  that  word, — no,  not  a  word  even,  a  look 
would  have  been  enough, — Ferris  would  never 
have  entered  the  western  forest  belt. 

We  sat  dawdling  over  our  wine  in  the  glow  of 
the  long  candles  while  the  fire  crackled  in  the 
chimney  place  ;  for  the  evening  was  chilly,  and 
Solomon  brooded  sullenly  before  the  blaze .  Hew 
lett,  noiseless  and  pompous,  glided  from  side-board 
to  table,  decorously  avoiding  the  evil  jabs  from 
Solomon's  curved  bill,  until  Ferris  woke  up  and 
told  him  he  might  retire,  which  he  did  with  a 
modest  ' '  good-night,  sir, ' '  and  a  haughty  glance 
at  Solomon.  A  half  hour  of  strained  silence  fol 
lowed.  I  leaned  on  the  table,  my  head  on  my 
hands,  watching  the  candle  light  reflected  on  the 
fragile  wine  glasses.  Myriads  of  little  flames 
glistened  on  the  crystal  bowls,  deep  stained  with 
the  red  wine's  glow.  The  fire  snapped  and  spar 
kled  on  the  hearth,  and  Solomon  slept,  his  wiz 
ened  head  buried  in  the  depths  of  his  flaming 
plumage. 


The  Silent  Land.  123 

And  as  we  sat  there,  there  came  a  faint  tapping 
at  the  curtained  window.  Ferris  did  not  hear  it 
I  did,  for  it  was  the  Spirit-bird. 

"  I  must  go,"  said  I,  rising  suddenly. 

"  Where?"  said  Ferris. 

I  looked  at  him  stupidly  for  a  moment,  then 
sank  back  into  my  chair. 

Solomon  stirred  in  his  slumber  and  I  heard  the 
wind  rising  in  the  chimney. 

Ferris  leaned  across  the  table  and  touched  my 
sleeve. 

I  looked  at  him  silently. 

' ( I  must  speak, ' '  he  said  ;  ' '  are  you  ready  ? ' ' 

I  did  not  reply. 

''Sadness  and  silence  have  no  place  here,  be 
tween  you  and  me.  Shall  I  tell  you  a  story  I 
once  read  ?  ' ' 

"  I  am  half  asleep,"  I  muttered. 

"This  is  the  story,"  he  said,  unheeding  my 
words.  "  There  was  once  a  King  in  Carcosa " 

My  hand  fell  heavily  upon  the  table. 

" And  there  was  given  unto  him  a  mouth 

speaking  great  things  and  blasphemies " 

"  For  God's  sake,  Ferris " 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  for  God's  sake." 

We  sat  staring  at  each  other  across  the  table, 
and  if  my  face  was  as  white  as  his  I  do  not  know, 
but  my  hand  trembled  among  the  glasses  till  they 
tinkled. 

'  *  I  was  born  in  France, ' '  he  said  at  last.  ' '  You 
did  not  know  it,  for  I  never  told  you.  What  do 


124  The  Silent  Land. 

you  know  about  me  after  all  ?  Nothing.  What 
have  years  of  friendship  taught  you  about  my 
past?  Nothing.  Now  learn.  My  father  was 
shot  dead  by  an  inferior  officer  in  Rouen.  The 
assassin  escaped  to  Canada  where — I  found  him. 
He  died  by  his  own  hand — from  choice.  I  did 
not  know  he  had  a  child. " 

The  dull  fear  at  my  heart  must  have  looked 
from  my  eyes.  Ferris  nodded. 

"Yes,  you  know  the  rest,"  he  said;  "the 
shame  and  disgrace  of  the  suicide  drove  the  child 
away — anywhere  to  escape  it — anywhere — here, 
into  the  wilderness  the  woman  fled  where  she  hath 
a  place  prepared  of  God." 

The  Spirit-bird  was  tapping  on  the  window,  I 
heard  the  noise  of  wings  beating  against  the 
pane. 

"  I  must  go,"  I  said,  and  my  voice  sounded 
within  me  as  from  a  great  distance. 

"Vengeance  is  God's,"  said  Ferris,  quietly: 
"I  am  guilty." 

"  I  must  go,"  I  repeated,  steadying  myself  with 
my  hand  on  the  table. 

The  noise  of  wings  filled  my  ears.  I  knew  the 
summons. 

' '  Do  you  not  hear  ?  "  I  cried. 

"The  wind,"  said  Ferris. 

Then  the  door  slowly  opened  from  without, 
the  long  candles  flared  in  the  wind,  and  the  ashes 
stirred  and  drifted  among  the  embers  on  the 
hearth.  And  out  of  the  night  came  a  slender 


The  Silent  Land.  125 

figure,  with  dark  eyes  wide,  and  timid  hands 
outstretched — outstretched  until  they  fell  into 
my  own  and  lay  there. 

"I  came  from  the  Silent  Land,"  she  said; 
"the  bird  lead  me  ;  see,  it  has  entered  with  me, 
Louis." 

' '  It  is  my  wife  who  has  entered, ' '  I  said  quietly 
to  Ferris,  and  the  little  maid  clung  close  to  me, 
holding  out  one  slim  hand  to  Ferris. 

There  was  an  interval  of  silence. 

"  Father  Gregory  will  breakfast  with  us  to 
morrow,  ' '  said  Ferris  to  me. 

"A  Priest?" 

' '  Open  the  window,"  smiled  Ferris  ;  "  there  is 
a  small  grey  bird  here." 

So  I  opened  the  window  and  it  flew  away. 

"Good-night,"  whispered  the  little  maid,  and 
kissed  her  hand  to  the  open  window. 

"Diane!" 

She  came  to  me  quietly.  Ferris  had  vanished  ; 
Solomon  peered  dreamily  at  us  with  filmy  eyes. 

"  The  Spirit-bird  has  gone,"  she  said. 

Then,  with  her  arms  about  my  neck,  I  raised 
her  head,  touching  her  white  brow  with  my  lips. 
*  #  *  *  #  $ 

When  my  wife  read  as  far  as  you  have  read, 
she  picked  up  the  embroidery  which  she  had 
dropped  beside  her  on  the  table. 

"  Do  you  like  my  story?  "  I  asked. 

But  she  only  smiled  at  me  from  under  her 
straight  eyebrows. 


126  The  Silent  Land. 

The  next  morning  I  received  her  ultimatum  ; 
I  am  to  cease  writing  about  beautiful  women  of 
doubtful  antecedents  who  inhabit  forest  glades, 
I  am  to  stop  making  fun  of  Hewlett,  I  am  to 
curb  my  passion  for  rod  and  gun,  and,  if  I  insist 
on  writing  about  my  wife,  I  am  to  tell  the  truth 
concerning  her.  This  I  have  promised  Ysonde 
to  do,  and  I  shall  try  to,  in  "  The  Black  Water." 


THE  BI,ACK  WATER. 


"  Lorsque  la  coquette  KspeVance 
Nous  pousse  le  coude  en  passant, 
Puis  a  tire-d'aile  s'elance, 
Et  se  retourne  en  souriant ; 

"  Ou  va  1'homme  !    Ou  son  coeur  1'appelle  ! 
Iv'hirondelle  suit  le  zephyr, 
Kt  moins  legere  est  1'hirondelle 
Que  rhomme  qui  suit  son  desir." 


THE  BLACK  WATER. 


Oh  !  could  you  view  the  melodic 

Of  ev'ry  grace, 
And  musick  of  her  face, 

You'd  drop  a  teare, 
Seeing  more  harmonic 

In  her  bright  eye, 
Then  now  you  heare." 


I. 


YSONDK  swung  her  racquet.     Her  laughter 
was  very  sweet.     A  robin  on  the  tip  of  a 
balsam-tree  cocked  his  head  to  listen  ;  a 
shy  snow-bird  peered  at  her  through  the  meadow 
grass. 

'  'What  are  you  laughing  at?"  I  asked,  un 
easily.  I  spoke  sharply — I  had  not  intended  to. 
The  porcupine  on  the  porch  lifted  his  head,  his 
rising  quills  grating  on  the  piazza;  a  drab-coloured 
cow,  knee  deep  in  the  sedge,  stared  at  me  in 
stupid  disapproval. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Ysonde,"  I  said,  sulkily, 
for  I  felt  the  rebuke  of  the  cow.     Then  Ysonde 
9  129 


130 


The  Black  Water. 


laughed  again  ;  the  robin  chirped  in  sympathy, 
and  the  snow-bird  crept  to  the  edge  of  the  tennis- 
court. 

"Deuce,"  I  said,  picking  up  a  ball,  "are  you 
ready  ? ' ' 

She  stepped  back,  making  me  a  mocking 
reverence.  Her  eyes  were  bluer  than  the  flower 
ing  flax  behind  her. 

I  had  intended  to  send  her  a  swift  service,  and 
I  should  have  done  so  had  I  not  noticed  her  eyes. 

"Deuce,"  I  repeated,  pausing  to  recover  the 
composure  necessary  for  good  tennis.  She  made 
a  gesture  with  her  racquet.  The  service  was  a 
miserable  failure.  I  drove  the  second  ball  into 
the  net,  and  then,  placing  the  butt  of  my  racquet 
on  the  turf,  sat  down  on  the  rim. 

"Vantage  out,"  said  I,  gritting  my  teeth; 
' '  what  were  you  laughing  at,  Ysonde  ?  ' ' 

"Vantage  out,"  she  repeated;  "I  am  not 
laughing." 

"You  were,"  I  said;    "you  are  now." 

She  went  to  the  boxwood  hedge,  picked  out 
one  ball  and  sent  it  back  ;  then  she  drove  the 
other  over  the  net  and  retired  to  her  corner 
swinging  her  racquet.  I  did  not  move. 

* '  You  are  spoiling  your  racquet, ' '  she  said. 

I  was  sitting  on  it.     I  knew  better. 

"  And  your  temper,"  she  said,  sweetly. 

"Vantage  out,"  I  repeated,  and  raised  my  ten 
nis-bat  for  a  smashing  service.  The  ball  whisted 
close  to  the  net,  and  the  white  dust  flew  from  her 


The  Black  Water.  131 

court,  but  her  racquet  caught  it  fair  and  square 
and  I  heard  the  ring  of  the  strings  as  the  ball 
shot  along  my  left  alley  and  dropped  exactly  on 
the  service  line.  How  I  got  it  I  don't  know, 
but  the  next  moment  a  puff  of  dust  rose  in  her 
vantage  court,  there  was  a  rustle  of  skirts,  a 
twinkle  of  small  tennis  shoes,  and  the  ball  rock 
eted,  higher,  higher,  into  the  misty  sunshine. 

"  Oh,"  gasped  Ysonde,  and  bit  her  lip. 

The  ball  began  to  come  down.  I  had  time  to 
laugh  before  it  struck, — to  laugh  quietly  and 
twirl  my  short  mustache. 

"  I  shall  place  that  ball,"  said  I,  ''where  you 
will  not  find  it  easily  "  ;  and  I  did,  deliberately. 

For  a  second  Ysonde  was  disappointed,  I  could 
see  that,  but  I  imagined  there  was  the  slightest 
tremour  of  relief  in  her  voice  when  she  said  : 

' '  Brute  force  is  useless,  Bobby  ;  listen  to  the 
voice  of  the  Prophetess." 

"  I  hear,"  I  said,  "the  echo  of  your  voice  in 
the  throat  of  every  bird." 

"  Which  is  very  pretty  but  unfair,"  said 
Ysonde,  looking  at  the  snow-birds  beside  her. 
"It  is  unfair,"  she  repeated. 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  "it  is  unfair  ;  are  }7ou  ready  ?  " 

"Let  us  finish  the  game  this  afternoon,"  she 
suggested  ;  ' '  look  at  these  snow-birds,  Bobby  ;  if 
I  raise  my  racquet  it  will  frighten  them." 

"  And  you  imagine,"  said  I,  "  that  these  snow 
birds  are  going  to  interrupt  the  game — this 
game?" 


132  The  Black  Water. 

"  What  a  pity  to  frighten  them  ;  see — look  how 
close  they  come  to  me  ?  Do  you  think  the  little 
things  are  tamed  by  hunger  ? ' ' 

* '  Some  creatures  are  not  tamed  by  anything, ' ' 
I  said. 

"  Are  you  hungry  ?  "  she  asked,  innocently. 

I  was  glad  that  I  suppressed  my  anger. 

"  Ysonde,"  I  said,  "  you  know  what  this  game 
means  to  me — to  us. ' ' 

"  I  know  nothing  about  it,"  she  said,  hastily, 
retreating  to  her  corner  ;  <c  play — it 's  deuce  you 
know." 

"  I  know,"  I  replied,  and  sent  a  merciless  ball 
shooting  across  her  deuce  court. 

"  Vantage  in,"   I  observed,  trying  not  to  smile. 

A  swift  glance  from  her  wide  eyes,  a  percep 
tible  tremble  of  the  long  lashes — that  was  all ;  but 
I  knew  what  I  knew,  for  I  have  hunted  wild 
creatures. 

The  porcupine  on  the  piazza  rose,  sniffed, 
blinked  in  the  sunlight,  and  lumbered  down  the 
steps,  every  quill  erect. 

4 '  Billy  !     Go  back  this  minute  !  ' '  said  Ysonde. 

The  quills  on  Billy's  back  flattened. 

"  Billy,"  I  repeated,  "  go  and  climb  a  tree." 

"If  you  speak  to  him  he  will  bristle  again," 
said  Ysonde,  walking  over  to  the  porcupine. 

"  Billy,  my  child,  climb  this  pretty  balsam  tree 
for  the  gentleman  ;  come — you  are  interrupting 
the  game,  and  the  gentleman  is  impatient." 

"The  gentleman  is  very  impatient,  Billy,"  I 
said. 


The  Black  Water.  133 

I  saw  Ysonde  colour — a  soft  faint  tint,  nothing 
more  ;  I  saw  Billy  receive  a  gentle  impulse — oh, 
very  gentle  indeed,  from  the  point  of  her  slender 
tennis  shoes.  So  the  porcupine  was  hustled  up 
the  balsam-tree,  where  he  lay  like  an  old  mat, 
untidy,  mortified,  nursing  his  wrath,  while  two 
blue-birds  tittered  among  the  branches  above 
him. 

Ysonde  came  back  and  stood  in  the  game 
court. 

"It  is  vantage,  I  believe, ' '  she  said,  indiffer 
ently. 

"Out,"  said  I,  with  significance.  Ysonde 
looked  at  me. 

"  Out,"  I  repeated. 

"Play,"  she  said,  desperately. 

"No,"  I  replied,  sitting  down  upon  the  edge 
of  my  racquet  again — I  knew  better — "let  us 
clearly  understand  the  consequences  first." 

She  swung  her  racquet  and  looked  me  full  in 
the  eyes. 

' '  What  consequences  ?  ' '   she  said. 
'  The  consequences  incident  upon  my  winning 
this  set." 

"  What  consequences?  "  she  insisted,  defiantly. 

"The  forfeit,"  said  I. 

"When  you  win  the  set  we  will  discuss  that," 
she  said.  "  Do  you  imagine  you  will  win  ?  " 

She  was  a  better  player  than  I  ;  she  could  give 
me  thirty  on  each  game. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  and  I  believe  the  misery  in  my 
voice  would  have  moved  a  tigress  to  pity. 


134  The  Black  Water. 

Now  perhaps  it  was  because  there  is  nothing 
of  the  tigress  about  Ysonde,  perhaps  because  I 
showed  my  fear  of  her — I  don't  know  which — but 
I  saw  her  scarlet  lips  press  one  upon  the  other, 
and  I  saw  her  eyes  darken  like  violet  velvet  at 
night. 

"  Play,"  she  said  ;  "  I  am  ready." 

The  first  ball  struck  the  net ;  the  racquet  turned 
in  niy  nerveless  hand,  and  she  smiled. 

11  Play  !  "  I  cried,  and  the  second  ball  bit  the 
lime  dust  at  her  feet.  I  saw  the  flash  of  her 
racquet,  I  saw  a  streak  of  gray  lightning,  and  I 
lifted  my  racquet,  but  something  struck  me  in 
the  face, — the  tennis-balls  were  heavy  and  wet, 
— and  I  staggered  about  blindly,  faint  with 
pain. 

"Oh,  Bobby  !  "  cried  Ysonde,  and  stood  quite 
still. 

"  I  'm  a  duffer,  "  I  muttered,  trying  to  open  my 
eye,  but  the  pain  sickened  me.  I  placed  my  hand 
over  it  and  looked  out  upon  the  world  with  one 
eye.  The  drab-coloured  cow  was  watching  me  ; 
she  was  chewing  her  cud  ;  the  porcupine  had  one 
sardonic  eye  fixed  upon  me  ;  the  robin,  balanced 
on  the  tip  of  the  balsam,  mocked  me.  It  was 
plain  that  the  creatures  were  all  on  her  side. 
The  wild  snow-birds  scarcely  moved  as  Ysonde 
hastened  across  the  court  to  my  side.  I  heard 
the  blue-birds  tittering  over  head,  but  I  did  not 
care  ;  I  had  heard  the  tones  of  Ysonde' s  voice, 
and  I  was  glad  that  I  had  been  banged  in  the 


The  Black  Water.  135 

eye.  It  was  true  she  had  only  said,  "Oh, 
Bobby!" 

"Is  it  very  painful  ? ' '  she  asked,  standing 
close  beside  me. 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  seriously. 

"  I^et  me  look,"  she  said,  laying  one  hand  on 
the  sleeve  of  my  cricket  shirt. 

"  Billy  will  rejoice  at  this,"  said  I,  removing 
my  handkerchief  so  she  could  see  the  eyes.  The 
pain  was  becoming  intense.  With  my  uninjured 
eye  I  could  see  how  white  her  hand  was. 

She  stood  still  a  moment ;  my  arm  grew  warm 
beneath  her  hand. 

"  It  will  cheer  Billy,"  I  suggested  ;  "  did  I  tell 
you  that  he  bit  me  yesterday  and  I  whacked  him  ? 
No  ?  Well,  he  did,  and  I  did." 

"  How  can  you  !  "  she  murmured  ;  "  how  can 
you  speak  of  that  ridiculous  Billy  when  you  may 
have — have  to  be  blind  ?  ' ' 

"  Nonsense,"  I  said,  with  a  shiver. 

She  crossed  the  turf  to  the  spring  and  brought 
her  handkerchief  back  soaking  and  cold  as  ice. 
I  felt  her  palm  on  my  cheek  as  she  adjusted  it. 
It  was  smooth,  like  an  apricot. 

"  Hold  it  there,"  I  said,  bribing  my  conscience  ; 
"  it  is  very  pleasant."  She  thought  I  meant  the 
wet  handkerchief. 

"  If— if  I  have  ruined  your  sight  "  :  she  began. 

Now  it  was  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue  to  add — 
"  and  yet  you  are  going  to  ruin  my  life  by  beat 
ing  me  at  tennis,"  but  my  conscience  revolted. 


136  The  Black  Water. 

* '  Do  you  think  it  is  serious  ? ' '  she  asked,  in  a 
voice  so  low  that  I  bent  my  head  involuntarily. 
She  mistook  the  gesture  for  one  of  silent  acquies 
cence.  A  tear — a  large  warm  one — fell  on  my 
wrist ;  I  thought  it  was  a  drop  of  water  from  the 
handkerchief  at  first.  Then  I  opened  my  unin 
jured  eye  and  saw  her  mistake. 

"You  misunderstood,"  I  said,  wearily.  "  I 
don't  believe  what  the  oculist  told  me;  the  eye 
will  be  all  right." 

"  But  he  warned  you  that  a  sudden  blow 
would " 

"Might " 

"  Oh— did  he  say  might  ?  " 

"  Yes— but  it  won't.  I  'm  all  right— don't  take 
away  your  hand  ;  are  you  tired  ?  ' ' 

' '  No,  no, ' '  she  said,  '  *  shall  I  get  some  fresh 
water?" 

"  Not  yet — don't  go.  The  game  was  at  deuce, 
wasn't  it?  " 

Ysonde  was  silent. 

* '  Was  it  deuce  ?  Does  that  point  count  against 
me  ?  "  I  insisted. 

' '  How  can  you  think  of  the  game  now  ?  ' '  said 
Ysonde,  in  a  queer  voice — like  the  note  of  a  very 
young  bird. 

I  sat  down  on  the  turf,  and  the  handkerchief 
fell  from  my  eye.  Ysonde  hastened  to  the  spring 
and  returned  carrying  the  heavy  stone  jar  full  of 
water.  It  must  have  strained  her  delicate  wrist 
— she  said  it  did  not ;  and,  kneeling  beside  me, 


The  Black  Water.  137 

she  placed  the  cold  bit  of  cambric  over  my 
eye. 

4  '  Thank  you, ' '  I  said  ;  ' '  will  you  sit  beside  me 
on  the  turf  ? ' '  Both  of  my  eyes  were  aching  and 
closed,  but  I  heard  her  skirts  rustle  and  felt  the 
momentary  pressure  of  her  palm  on  my  cheek. 

' '  Are  you  seated  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Yes,  Bobby." 

"  Then  tell  me  whether  I  lost  that  point." 

' '  How  can  I  tell, ' '  she  answered  ;  "  I  would 
willingly  concede  it  if  it  were  not ' ' 

"For  the  forfeit,"  I  added;  ' ( then  you  think 
I  did  lose  the  point  ?  ' ' 

' '  Does  your  eye  pain  very  much  ?  ' '  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  truthfully.  Perhaps  it  was  un 
generous,  but  I  dared  not  reject  such  an  ally  as 
truth.  I  opened  one  eye  and  looked  at  Ysonde. 
She  was  examining  a  buttercup. 

"  All  buttercups  look  as  though  they  had  been 
carefully  varnished,"  said  she,  touching  one  with 
the  tip  of  her  middle  finger. 

"  Did  I  win  the  set  ?  "  I  began  again. 

"  Oh— no— not  the  set  !  "  she  protested. 

11  Then  I  lost  that  point  ?  " 

' '  Oh  !  why  will  you  dwell  upon  tennis  at  such 
a  moment  ! ' ' 

"  Because,"  said  I,  "  it  means  so  much  to  me." 

I  suppose  there  was  something  in  my  voice  that 
frightened  her. 

' '  Forgive  me, ' '  I  said,  bitterly  ashamed,  for  I 
had  broken  our  compact,  not  directly,  but  in  sub- 


138  The  Black  Water. 

stance.  "  Forgive  me,  Ysonde,"  I  said,  looking 
at  the  porcupine  with  my  left  eye. 

"  Ridiculous  Billy,"  for  that  was  his  name, 
stared  at  me  with  the  insolence  born  of  safety, 
and  his  white  whiskers  twitched  in  derision. 

"  You  old  devil,"  I  thought,  remembering  the 
scar  on  my  ankle. 

1 '  Where  did  he  bite  you  ?  ' '  asked  Ysonde  un 
consciously  reading  my  thoughts.  It  was  a  trick 
of  hers. 

"  In  the  ankle, — it  was  nothing.  I  would  rather 
have  him  bite  the  other  ankle  than  get  any  more 
of  his  quills  into  me  !  "  I  replied.  ' '  See  how  the 
snow-birds  have  followed  you.  They  are  there 
among  the  wild  strawberries." 

She  turned  her  head. 

* '  Hush  ! ' '  she  whispered,  raising  one  palm. 
It  was  pinker  than  the  unripe  berries.  There 
was  an  ache  in  my  heart  as  well  as  in  my  eyes,  so 
I  said  something  silly ;  ' f  There  was  an  old  man 
who  said,  Hush  !  I  perceive  a  young  bird  in  this 
bush- 

' '  When  they  said,  Is  it  small  ?  he  replied,  Not  at 
all !  It  is  four  times  as  big  as  the  bush  !  "  re 
peated  Ysonde,  solemnly.  We  both  laughed,  but 
I  read  a  gratitude  in  her  eyes  which  annoyed  me. 

"We  digress,"  I  said,  "speaking  of  the 
game- 

"  Oh,  but  we  were  not  speaking  of  the  game  !  " 
she  said,  half-alarmed,  half-smiling  ;  "  there  !  I 
thought  you  were  going  to  be  sensible,  Bobby." 


The  Black  Water.  139 

"  I  am.  I  only  wish  to  know  whether  I  lost 
that  game." 

' '  You  know  the  rules, ' '  she  said. 

' '  Yes — I  know  the  rules. ' ' 

"  If  it  were  not  for  the  forfeit,  I  should  not 
insist, '  *  she  continued,  returning  to  her  buttercup. 
"  It  seems  unfair  to  take  the  point  ; — does  the 
eye  pain,  Bobby  ?  ' ' 

' '  Not  so  much, ' '  I  replied,  sticking  to  the  truth 
to  the  bitter  end.  My  ally  was  becoming  a  nui 
sance. 

' '  lyet  me  see  it, ' '  she  said,  gently  removing  the 
handkerchief.  The  eye  must  have  looked  bad, 
for  her  face  changed. 

"  Oh,  you  poor  fellow,"  she  said,  and  I  fairly 
revelled  in  the  delight  of  my  own  misery. 

"  Then  I  lost  that  point,"  said  I,  stifling  con 
science. 

She  replaced  the  handkerchief.  Her  hand  had 
become  suddenly  steady. 

' '  No, ' '  she  said,  ' '  you  did  not  lose  the  point, 
— I  concede  it. ' ' 

I  wondered  whether  my  ears  were  tricking  me. 

"  Then — if  I  won  the  point — I  won  the  set,"  I 
said. 

"Yes." 

"And  the  forfeit " 

' '  The  forfeit  was  that  I  should  kiss  you, ' '  said 
Ysonde,  gravely. 

"  That  was  not  all " 

"  No, — you  are  to  be  allowed  to  tell  me  that 


140  The  Black  Water. 

you  love  me,"  continued  Ysonde  in  calm,  even 
tones. 

"  Then,"  said  I,  flushing  uncomfortably,  "when 
will  you  pay  the  forfeit  ? ' ' 

' '  Now,  if  you  wish  it.     Shall  I  kiss  you  ?  ' ' 

She  leaned  on  the  turf,  one  hand  hidden  by  the 
buttercups.  She  had  dropped  the  handkerchief, 
and  I  picked  it  up  and  held  it  to  my  eye  with  my 
left  hand.  Then,  with  my  right  hand,  I  took 
her  right  hand,  listlessly  drooping  beside  her,  and 
I  looked  her  full  in  the  eyes. 

'  *  When  we  made  the  wager, ' '  I  said,  ' '  we 
were  boy  and  girl.  That  was  almost  twenty-four 
hours  ago.  You  need  not  kiss  me,  Ysonde. ' ' 

* c  A  kiss  means  more  at  our  age, ' '  she  said. 

11  We  were  very  silly,"  said  I. 

' '  It  should  mean  love, ' '  she  said,  faintly. 

11  Indeed  it  should,"  I  said. 

Ysonde  sat  straight  up  among  the  field  flowers. 

"  I  do  not  love,"  she  said. 

* '  I  know  it, "  I  replied  gaily,  and  I  let  the  ban 
dage  drop  from  my  eye.  ' '  The  pain  is  all  gone, ' ' 
I  said,  closing  my  left  eye  to  see  whether  my 
vision  was  impaired. 

I  was  totally  blind  in  my  right  eye. 

For  an  instant  the  shock  staggered  me.  I  don't 
know  how  long  I  sat,  mouth  open,  staring  at  the 
sun  with  one  sound,  one  sightless  eye.  Ysonde, 
her  chin  on  her  hands,  lay  with  her  face  turned 
toward  the  White  I^ady,  a  towering  peak  in  the 
east. 


The  Black  Water.  141 

' '  Come, ' '  I  said,  rising,  ' '  your  aunt  will  be  im 
patient  ;  dinner  has  been  served  this  half  hour. ' ' 

She  sprang  to  her  feet, — she  had  been  in  a  rev 
erie, — and  gave  me  a  long  look  which  I  could  not 
define. 

"And  your  eye  doesn't  pain?"  she  asked, 
after  a  moment. 

' '  No, ' '  I  said,  for  the  pain  had  disappeared 
with  the  sight;  "  I  am  all  right  except  a  head 
ache." 

' '  And  you  can  see  perfectly  well  ?  ' ' 

11  Perfectly." 

It  was  at  this  point  that  truth  and  I  parted ;  for 
what  was  a  lost  eye  that  it  should  cause  her  a  mo 
ment' s  regret  ? 


II. 


IT  was  about  this  time  that  the  oculist  came  to 
Holderness  and  visited  me  at  the  Rosebud 
Inn.    I  was  in  a  dark  room;  Ysonde  thought 
it  better,  believing  darkness  a  cure  for  headache. 

When  the  oculist  walked  in — his  name  was  Keen, 
— he  said,  ' '  What  the  devil  are  you  doing  here  ? ' ' 

' '  I  am  blind  in  one  eye — will  it  be  noticeable  ?  ' ' 
I  asked. 

* '  Banged  in  the  eye  ?  "  he  enquired,  opening 
the  shutters. 

"  Banged  in  the  eye,"  I  repeated,  as  he  bent 
over  me. 

His  examination  lasted  scarcely  ten  seconds. 
After  a  moment  he  rose  and  closed  the  shutters, 
and  I  stood  up  in  the  darkness. 

"  Will  it  disfigure  me  ?  "  I  asked  again. 

"  No, — an  oculist  could  tell  the  difference  per 
haps.  You  may  go  out  in  three  weeks." 

"Blind?" 

"  Nonsense,"  growled  Keen,  "  you  have  an 
other  eye  yet." 

f<  But  I  am  an  artist,"  I  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  is 
there  hope  ?  ' ' 

142 


The  Black  Water.  143 

I  heard  Keen  sit  down  in  the  room,  and  his 
rocking-chair  squeaked  through  five  minutes  of 
the  bitterest  darkness  I  ever  knew.  I  could  stand 
it  no  longer,  so  I  rose  and  felt  my  way  towards 
the  rocking-chair, — I  wanted  to  touch  him — I  was 
terrified.  Well,  it  only  lasted  a  few  moments — 
most  men  pass  through  crises — I  was  glad  he  did 
not  attempt  to  pity  me. 

"  It  was  Miss —     "  he  began. 

"  Hush  !  "  I  whispered.  "  Who  told  you, 
Keen?" 

"She  did,"  he  replied.  "  Of  course,  she  need 
never  know  you  are — 

"  Blind,"  I  said, — "  No,  she  need  not  know 
it." 

I  heard  him  feeling  for  the  door. 
'  Turn  your  back, ' '  he  said. 

I  did  so. 

' '  Three  weeks  ?  "  I  enquired  over  my  shoulder. 

"Yes— don't  smoke." 

"  What  the  devil  shall  I  do  ?  "  I  said,  savagely. 
'Think  on  your  sins,    old   chap," — we    had 
studied  together  in  the  L,atin  Quarter — ' '  think  of 
Pepita " 

"  I  won't,"  I  cried.  Keen  hummed  in  a  mis 
chievous  voice, 

"  Quacd  le  sommeil  sur  ta  famille 

Autour  de  toi  s'est  repondu, 
O  Pepita,  charmante  fille, 

Mon  amour,  £  quoi  penses-tu  ?  " 


144  The  Black  Water. 

"  Keen,"  I  said,  "  I  '11  break  your  head,  if  I 
am  one-eyed. ' ' 

"  I  'm  a  married  man,"  he  replied,  "  and  I 
refuse  your  offer;  that  's  better,  I  like  to  hear  the 
old  ring  in  your  voice,  Bobby — keep  a  stiff  upper 
lip.  Surgery  and  painting  are  not  the  only  things 
we  learned  in  the  Quarter. ' ' 

I  heard  the  door  close  behind  him,  then  turned 
and  groped  my  way  toward  the  bed. 

*  #  #  #  #  # 

How  I  ever  lived  through  those  three  weeks  ! — 
Well,  I  did,  and  every  fresh  pipe  of  Bird's-eye 
tasted  sweeter  for  my  disobedience. 

"Write  him,"  I  dictated  through  the  closed 
door  to  Ysonde, — "  write  him  that  I  am  smoking 
six  pipes  a  day  as  he  directed."  After  all,  if  I 
was  going  to  be  blind  in  one  eye,  I  did  not  care 
whether  tobacco  hastened  the  blow,  and  I  was 
glad  to  poke  a  little  fun  at  Keen. 

Ysonde  could  not  imagine  why  the  doctor  had 
recommended  smoking  —  she  had  heard  that  it 
weakened  the  sight,  but  she  wrote  as  I  directed, 
merely  expressing  her  distrust  in  Keen,  which 
amused  me,  for  he  is  now  one  of  the  most  famous 
oculists  in  the  world. 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  through  the  key-hole,  "  Keen  is 
young,  and  has  much  to  learn,  but  I  dare  not  dis 
obey  orders.  How  is  your  aunt  ?  ' ' 

"  My  aunt  is  well,  thank  you,  Bobby;  did  you 
like  the  sherbet  she  made  ?  ' ' 

"  Yes — that 's  six  times  you  have  asked  me." 


The  Black  Water.  145 

I  was  wearying  of  lying.  The  sherbet  reposed 
among  the  soapsuds  of  my  toilet  jar. 

Ysonde's  aunt,  a  tall  aristocratic  beauty,  whose 
perfectly  arched  eye-brows  betrayed  the  compla 
cent  vacancy  of  her  mind,  had  actually  prepared, 
with  her  own  fair  hands,  a  sherbet  for  me.  I 
cannot  bear  sweets  of  any  kind. 

' (  Aunt  Lynda  will  make  another  to-morrow, ' ' 
cooed  Ysonde  through  the  key-hole. 

"  Thank  her  for  me,"  said  I  faintly;  "  Ysonde, 
I  am  coming  out  to-night." 

' '  It  is  not  yet  three  weeks  ! ' '  cried  Ysonde. 

"  It  will  be  three  weeks  to-morrow  at  i  p.m. 
My  eyes  won't  suffer  at  night.  I  should  like  to 
smell  the  woods  a  little.  Will  you  walk  with  me 
this  evening  ?  ' ' 

' '  If  Aunt  Lynda  will  allow  me, ' '  said  Ysonde. 
After  a  moment  she  added  :  "  I  will  ask  her 
now ' ' ;  and  I  heard  her  rise  from  her  chair  outside 
my  door. 

When  she  came  back,  I  was  lying  face  down 
wards  on  my  bed,  miserable,  dreading  the  hour 
when  I  should  first  face  my  own  reflection  in  a 
mirror.  I  heard  her  step  on  the  stairs,  and  I 
jumped  up  and  groped  my  way  toward  the 
door. 

"  Bobby,"  she  called  softly. 

11  Ysonde,"  I  answered,  with  my  mouth  close 
to  the  key-hole.  She  started — I  heard  her — for 
she  did  not  know  I  was  so  near.  I  bent  my  head 
to  listen. 


146  The  Black  Water. 

"  Aunt  Lynda  says  you  are  foolish  to  go  out 
before  to-morrow " 

"  The  evening  won't  hurt  me." 

' '  But  suppose — only  suppose  your  disobedience 
should  cost  you  the  sight  of  your  eye  ?  ' ' 

"  It  won't,"  said  I. 

"  Think  how  I  should  feel  ?  " 

"  It  won't,"  I  repeated.  The  perspiration  sud 
denly  dampened  my  forehead,  and  I  wiped  it 
away. 

"  Can't  you  wait  ?  "  she  pleaded. 

"  No.  Have  you  your  aunt's  permission  to 
walk  with  me  this  evening  ?  ' ' 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  Shall  I  read  to  you  a  little 
while?" 

For  an  hour  I  listened  to  her  voice,  and  if  it 
was  Lovelace  or  Herrick  or  Isaac  Walton,  I  do 
not  know  upon  my  soul,  but  I  do  know  that  my 
dark  room  was  filled  with  the  delicious  murmur; 
and  I  heard  the  trees  moving  in  the  evening  wind 
and  the  twitter  of  sleepy  birds  from  the  hedge. 
It  might  have  been  the  perfume  from  the  roses 
under  my  window — perhaps  it  was  the  fragrance 
of  her  hair — she  bent  so  close  to  my  door  outside 
—but  a  sweet  smell  tinctured  the  darkness  about 
me,  stealing  into  my  senses ;  and  I  rose  and 
opened  my  blinds  a  little  way. 

It  was  night.  I  heard  the  rocky  river  rushing 
through  the  alders  and  the  pines  swaying  on 
the  ridge.  The  ray  from  the  moon  which  sil 
vered  the  windows  caused  my  eyes  no  pain. 


The  Black  Water.  147 

I  listened.  Through  the  low  music  of  her 
voice  crept  the  song  of  a  night- thrush.  A  breeze 
stirred  the  roses  under  my  window;  the  music 
of  voice  and  thrush  was  stilled.  Then,  in  the 
silence,  some  wild  creature  cried  out  from  the 
mountain  side. 

' '  Ame  damnee !  "  I  muttered ;  for  my  soul  was 
heavy  with  the  dread  of  the  coming  morning. 

' '  What  are  you  murmuring  in  there  by  your 
self  ? ' '  whispered  Ysonde,  through  the  door. 

' '  Nothing — was  it  a  lynx   on  Noon  Peak  ?  ' ' 

' '  I  heard  nothing, ' '  she  said. 

"  Nor  I,"  said  I,  opening  the  door. 

The  light  from  the  lamp  dazzled  but  did  not 
hurt  me.  She  laid  down  the  book  and  came 
swiftly  toward  me. 

"  Now,"  said  I,  ''we  will  walk  under  the  stars 
—with  your  aunt's  permission." 

I  heard  her  sigh  as  she  took  my  arm ;  ' '  Bobby, 
I  am  so  glad  your  eye  is  well.  What  could  you 
have  done  if  you  had  lost  the  sight  of  an  eye  ?  ' ' 


III. 


THK  morning  was  magnificent.  A  gentleman 
with  symmetrical  whiskers  named  Blylock, 
and  I  were  standing  on  the  verandah  of  the 
Rosebud  Inn.  Blylock' s  mind  was  neutral.  His 
lineage  was  long,  his  voice  modulated,  his  every 
action  acutely  impersonal.  The  subdued  polish 
of  Harvard  was  reflected  from  his  shoes  to  his 
collar.  When  he  smoked  he  smoked  judiciously, 
joylessly. 

"  And  you  lost  the  fish  ?  "  said  I. 

'  *  Yes, ' '  said  Blylock,  with  colourless  enthusi 
asm. 

"In  the  West  Branch?" 

"  Near  the  Forks,"  said  Blylock.  "  Do  you 
know  the  pool  ?  ' ' 

I  regretted  that  I  did  not.  He  had  once  asked 
me  whether  I  knew  the  Stryngbenes  of  Beacon 
Street,  and  I  had  replied  with  the  same  regret. 
Now  he  learned  that  I  was  culpably  ignorant  of 
the  pool  at  the  West  Branch  Forks. 

Blylock  looked  at  the  mountains.  The  White 
Lady  was  capped  with  mist,  but  except  for  that 
there  was  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky.  The  Gilded 
148 


The  Black  Water.  149 

Dome  towered,  clear  cut  as  a  cameo,  against  the 
pure  azure  of  the  northern  horizon;  L,ynx  Peak, 
jagged  and  cold,  shot  up  above  the  pines  of 
Crested  Hawk,  whose  sweeping  base  was  washed 
by  the  icy  river. 

' '  Do  you  think  he  might  weigh  five  pounds  ?  ' ' 
I  asked. 

"  Possibly,"  replied  Blylock;  "  I  regret  exceed 
ingly  that  I  lost  him. ' ' 

' '  But,  thank  God,  Plymouth  Rock  still  stands ! ' ' 
was  what  I  felt  he  expected  me  to  say.  I  did 
not ;  I  merely  asked  him  if  he  had  ever  experi 
enced  emotion.  "  Why,  of  course,"  he  answered 
seriously,  but  when  I  begged  him  to  tell  me  when, 
he  suspected  a  joke  and  smiled.  If  I  had  a  son 
who  smiled  like  that  I  would  send  him  to  Tony 
Pastor's.  Oh,  that  smile  ! — gentle,  vacant,  blank 
as  the  verses  of  a  Brook  Farm  Bard,  bleaker  than 
Bunker  Hill. 

"  For  sweet  charity's  sake,"  said  I,  "  tell  me 
why  you  do  it,  Blylock. ' ' 

"  Do  what?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh,"  said  I  wearily,  "  nothing — lose  a  five- 
pound  trout,  for  instance." 

"  I  had  on  a  brown  hackle,"  said  Blylock  ;  "  it 
was  defective. ' ' 

"  It  bust,"  said  I,  brutally,  "  did  you  curse  ?  " 

"  No,''  replied  Blylock.  Ysonde  came  out  and 
we  took  off  our  shooting-caps. 

"  Put  them  on  again  directly,"  said  Ysonde, 
nestling  deep  into  the  collar  of  her  jacket; 


150  The  Black  Water. 

"is  it  too  cold  for  the  trout  to  rise,  Mr. 
Blylock?" 

Ely  lock  looked  at  the  sky  and  then  at  his  finger 
tips.  There  was  a  seal  ring  on  one  of  his  fingers 
which  I  was  tired  of  seeing. 

I  listened  to  his  even  voice,  I  noticed  his  grace 
ful  carriage — I  even  noticed  the  momentary  flush 
on  his  cold  cheeks.  Oh,  how  tired  I  was  of  look 
ing  at  him ;  it  wearied  me  as  it  wearies  me  to  read 
advertisements  in  the  cars  of  the  elevated  railroad. 
But  I  liked  him. 

"Blylock,"  said  I,  "get  a  gait  on  you,  and 
we  '11  whip  the  stream  to  the  Intervale  before 
dinner. ' ' 

' '  The  water  will  be  cold, ' '  said  Ysonde.  ' '  You 
ought  to  have  waders. ' ' 

Now  Ysonde  knew  that  I  had  no  waders.  I 
loathed  them.  Blylock  always  wore  waders. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Blylock,  "  I  will  not  neg 
lect  to  wear  them." 

I  looked  at  Ysonde  and  met  her  eyes. 

"Oh,"  said  I,  spoiling  everything  with  inten 
tional  obstinacy,  ' '  Mr.  Blylock  never  forgets  his 
waders. ' '  For  a  moment  the  colour  touched  her 
cheek,  but  she  treated  me  much  better  than  I  de 
served. 

' '  Bobby, ' '  said  Ysonde,  ' '  remember  that  you 
have  been  ill,  and  if  you  wade  the  river  in  knick 
erbockers  you  will  be  obliged  to  eat  sherbert 
again." 

So  she  knew  the  mystery  of  the  soapsuds. 


The  Black  Water.  151 

"I  have  no  waders,  Ysonde,"  I  said  humbly, 
"  do  you  think  I  had  better  not  go  ?  " 

' '  You  know  best, ' '  she  said  indifferently ;  and 
I  got  my  deserts  to  the  placid  satisfaction  of  Bly 
lock. 

Ysonde  walked  away  to  join  her  aunt  and  I 
loafed  about,  sniffing  the  breeze,  sulky,  undecided, 
until  Blylock  appeared  with  rod  and  creel. 

' '  Going  ?  ' '  enquired  Blylock. 

"No,  I  shall  paint,"  I  said,  after  a  moment's 
silence. 

He  joined  Ysonde  and  her  aunt,  and  I  saw 
them  all  walking  toward  the  trail  that  crosses  the 
river  by  the  White  Cascade.  Blylock  had  under 
taken  to  teach  Ysonde  to  cast.  I  was  surprised 
when  she  accepted,  for  I  myself  had  taught  her  to 
cast.  However  I  never  asked  any  explanation 
and  she  never  offered  any — to  my  secret  annoy 
ance. 

It  was  just  two  weeks  that  I  had  been  out  of 
the  dark  room.  I  was  totally  blind  in  my  right 
eye,  but  nobody  except  Keen  and  myself  knew  it. 
I  was  becoming  used  to  it — I  was  only  too  thank 
ful  that  the  eye,  to  all  appearances,  was  as  perfect 
as  the  other  eye.  But  I  dreaded  to  begin  paint 
ing  again.  I  feared  that  everything  might  be 
colourless  and  lop-sided,  that  I  should  be  a  ruined 
man  as  far  as  my  profession  was  concerned.  I 
had  put  off  the  beginning  of  work  from  sheer  cow 
ardice.  Nobody  but  an  artist  can  appreciate  my 
mental  suffering; — nobody  but  an  artist  knows 


152  The  Black  Water. 

that  two  eyes  are  little  enough  to  see  with.  Had 
the  accident  destroyed  the  balance  of  my  sight  ? 
Would  my  drawing  be  exaggerated,  unstable, 
badly  constructed,  out  of  proportion  ?  Would  my 
colour  be  weak  or  brutally  crude  ?  I  decided  to 
find  out  without  further  delay,  so  when  Ysonde 
and  her  aunt  and  Blylock  had  disappeared,  I 
went  to  my  room,  gathered  up  my  well-worn 
sketching  kit,  screwed  two  canvases  into  the 
holder,  and  marched  manfully  out  the  door  into 
the  sunlit  forest. 

Ridiculous  Billy  followed  me.  This  capricious 
porcupine  had  taken  a  violent  fancy  to  me,  from 
the  moment  I  emerged  from  the  dark  room.  Of 
course  I  preferred  his  friendship  to  his  enmity — I 
still  bore  a  red  scar  on  my  ankle — but  what 
soothed  me  most  was  his  undisguised  hatred  of 
Blylock.  Billy  bit  him  whenever  he  could,  and 
the  blood  of  Bunker  Hill  appealed  to  Heaven 
from  the  piazza  of  the  Rosebud  Inn  ! 

Blylock  took  it  very  decently — the  porcupine 
was  Ysonde' s  property — but  although  he  himself 
suffered  in  silence,  and  Ysonde  darned  his  golf- 
stockings  as  partial  reparation,  I  always  fancied 
that  his  blood  was  importuning  Heaven,  and,  re 
membering  George  III,  I  trembled  for  Ridiculous 
Billy. 

Sometimes  I  was  sorry  for  Blylock,  sometimes 
I  was  not,  especially  when  Ysonde  darned  his 
golf-stockings.  Blylock  was  I^ynda  Sutherland's 
cousin,  but  I  demonstrated  to  Ysonde  that  this 


The  Black  Water.  153 

did  not  concern  her.  Sometimes  I  wished  that 
Blylock  would  go  back  to  Beacon  Street,  and  yet  I 
had  grown  fond  of  him  in  a  way. 

The  porcupine  followed  me  into  the  forest, 
poking  his  rat-like  muzzle  into  every  soft  rotten 
stump,  twitching  his  white  whiskers.  A  red 
squirrel  followed  him  from  tree  to  tree,  chattering 
and  squealing  with  rage,  but  Billy  lumbered 
along,  stolid,  blase,  entirely  wrapped  up  in  his 
own  business.  What  that  business  was  I  dared 
not  enquire,  for  Billy's  malicious  eyes  boded  evil 
for  interlopers,  and  I  respected  his  privacy. 

Walking  along  the  fragrant  brown  trail,  barred 
with  sunlight,  I  recalled  that  cold  gray  morning 
in  camp  when  Sutherland — Lynda's  late  lamented 
—waking  from  the  troubled  dreams  incident  on 
an  overdose  of  hot  whiskey  and  water,  called  to 
me,  to  take  ' '  that  thing  away !  "  ' '  That  thing  ' ' 
was  Billy.  From  his  nest  among  the  pine-clad 
ridges,  he  had  smelled  our  pork,  and  being  a  free- 
born  American,  he  had  descended  to  appropriate  it. 
In  the  gray  of  the  morning,  through  the  smoulder 
ing  camp-fire  smoke,  I  saw  Billy  in  the  act  of  re 
moving  the  pork  from  the  crotches  of  a  spruce 
tree. 

"  What  is  it  ?  Take  it  away  for  God's  sake  !  " 
bellowed  Sutherland,  associating  Billy  with  other 
grotesque  phantoms  incident  on  overdoses. 

"  It  's  a  porcupine,"  said  I. 

"  Pink  ?  "  faltered  Sutherland. 

"  Go  to  sleep,  you  brute,"  I  muttered,  not  ad- 


154  The  Black  Water. 

dressing  the  porcupine.  I  took  a  poncho,  a  thick 
one,  and  ran  the  porcupine  down.  Then  I  envel 
oped  him  in  the  blanket,  and  got  a  rope  about 
his  neck,  tied  him  to  a  tree  and  examined  my 
wounds.  One  of  our  guides  helped  me  pull  the 
spines  from  my  person,  and  that  night  the  other 
guide  led  Ridiculous  Billy  into  the  settlement 
which  consists  of  the  Rosebud  Inn  and  three 
barns. 

The  taking  of  Billy  preceded  Sutherland's  death 
by  twenty-four  hours;  he  was  mauled  by  a  pan 
ther  whose  cubs  he  was  investigating.  His  wife, 
Lynda,  who  had  secured  a  few  month's  reprieve 
from  his  presence,  and  who  first  heard  of  his  death 
at  Fortress  Monroe,  came  north  with  Ysonde. 
Sutherland  was  buried  in  New  York,  and  two 
weeks  later  Lynda  and  Ysonde  came  to  the  Rose 
bud  Inn.  All  this  happened  three  years  ago,  and 
during  those  three  years,  Billy,  gorgeous  with 
a  silver  collar,  had  never  forgiven  me  for  remov 
ing  him  from  his  native  wilds.  His  attitude 
toward  the  household  was  unmistakable.  Lynda 
he  avoided,  Ysonde  he  followed  with  every  mark 
of  approbation,  Blylock  he  loathed,  and  now,  he 
had  taken  this  sudden  shine  to  me. 

Billy  and  I  followed  the  trail,  solemnly,  delib 
erately.  The  trail  was  a  blind  one,  now  plain, 
brown  and  gold  with  trampled  wet  leaves,  now 
invisible,  a  labyrinth  of  twisted  moose-bush  and 
hemlock,  badly  blazed.  But  we  knew  our  busi 
ness,  Billy  and  I,  for  presently  we  crossed  a  swift 


The  Black  Water.  155 

brook,  darkling  among  mossy  hollows,  and  turn 
ing  to  the  right,  entered  a  moist  glade  all  splashed 
with  dewy  sunlight. 

"  Here,"  said  I,  unstrapping  my  camp-stool, 
' '  is  a  woodland  Mecca  ' ' ;  and  I  drove  my  white 
umbrella  deep  into  the  bank,  where  the  brook 
widened  in  sunny  shallows. 

Billy  eyed  me  a  moment,  rolled  a  pine-cone 
over  with  his  nose,  and  mounted  a  tree.  I  liked 
to  watch  him  mount  trees.  He  did  not  climb,  he 
neither  scrambled  nor  scratched,  he  simply  flowed 
up  the  trunk. 

"  Pleasant  dreams,"  said  I,  as  he  curled  up  in 
the  first  moss-covered  crotch;  and  I  began  to  set 
my  palette. 

In  the  fragrant  sun-soaked  glade  the  long  grass, 
already  crisp  as  hay,  was  vibrating  with  the  hum 
of  insects.  Shy  forest  butterflies  waved  their  soft 
wings  over  the  L,innea,  long-legged  gnats  with 
spotted  wings  danced  across  the  fern  patches,  and 
I  saw  a  great  sleepy  moth  hanging  from  a  chest 
nut  twig  among  the  green  branches  overhead. 
His  powdery  wings,  soft  as  felt,  glistened  like 
gilded  dust. 

"  An  Imperial  Moth,"  said  I  to  myself,  for  I 
was  glad  to  recognize  a  friend.  Then  a  wood- 
thrush  ruffled  his  feathers  under  the  spreading 
ferns,  and  I  saw  a  baby  rabbit  sit  up  and  wriggle 
its  nose  at  me. 

"  Lucky  for  you  I  'm  not  a  fox,"  said  I,  pick 
ing  up  a  pointed  sable  brush ;  and  I  drew  the  out- 


156  The  Black  Water. 

line  of  the  chestnut  tree,  omitting  the  porcupine 
in  the  branches. 

When  I  had  indicated  a  bit  of  the  forest  beyond 
the  glade,  using  a  pointed  brush  dipped  in  Ga- 
rance  Rose  fonce*e,  I  touched  in  a  mousey  shadow 
or  two,  scrubbed  deep  warm  tones  among  my 
trees,  using  my  rag  when  I  pleased,  and  then, 
digging  up  a  brushful  of  sunny  greens  and  yel 
lows,  slapped  it  boldly  on  the  foreground.  Over 
this  I  drew  a  wavering  sky  reflection,  indicated  a 
sparkle  among  the  dewy  greens,  scrubbed  more 
sunlight  into  the  shallow  depths  of  the  brook, 
and  leaned  back  with  a  nervous  sigh.  What  had 
God  taken  from  me  when  he  took  the  light  from 
my  eye  ?  I  pondered  in  silence  while  round  me 
the  brown- winged  forest  flies  buzzed  and  hummed 
and  droned  an  endless  symphony.  To  me,  with 
my  single  trembling  eye,  my  painted  foreground 
seemed  aglow  with  sunlight,  and  the  depths  of 
the  quiet  forest,  wrapped  in  hazy  mystery,  ap 
peared  true  and  just,  slumbering  there  upon  my 
canvas. 

The  brook  prattled  to  me  of  dreams  and  splen 
did  hopes,  the  pines  whispered  of  fame,  the  ferns 
rustled  and  nodded  consolation.  I  raised  my  head. 
High  in  the  circle  of  quivering  blue  above,  a  gray 
hawk  hung,  turning,  turning,  turning  in  silence. 

A  light  step  sounded  among  the  fallen  leaves. 
Slowly  I  turned,  my  sight  dazzled  by  the  sky, 
but  before  my  eye  had  found  its  focus  I  heard  her 
low  laughter  and  felt  her  touch  on  my  arm. 


The  Black    Water.  157 

' '  You  were  asleep, ' '  she  said,  ' '  you  must  not 
deny  it,  do  you  hear  me  ?  " 

"  I  was  not  asleep,"  I  answered,  rising  from  my 
camp-stool. 

"  Then  you  are  blind, — why  I  have  been  stand 
ing  there  for  two  minutes." 

' '  Two  minutes  ?  then  I  believe  that  I  must 
be  blind,"  said  I,  turning  so  that  I  could  see  her 
better.  She  stood  on  my  right. 

"  I  expected  to  be  challenged,"  said  she  ;  "I 
did  not  hear  your  qui  vive." 

Then  she  sat  down  on  my  camp-stool  and  gazed 
at  my  canvas  with  amazement. 

I  watched  her  in  silence,  proud  of  my  work, 
happy  that  she  should  recognize  it,  for  she  knew 
good  work  every  time.  After  a  while  I  began  to 
chafe  at  her  silence,  and  I  bent  my  head  to  see 
her  face.  I  shall  never  forget  the  pained  surprise 
in  her  eyes  nor  the  quiver  of  her  voice  as  she 
said  : 

"  Bobby,  this  is  childish,  what  on  earth  do  you 
mean  by  such  work  ?  ' ' 

The  blow  had  fallen.  At  first  I  was  stunned. 
Then  terror  seized  me,  and  I  grasped  a  low  swing 
ing  branch  to  steady  myself,  for  I  felt  as  though  I 
were  falling. 

' '  Bobby, ' '  she  cried,  ' '  you  are  white — are  you 
ill?" 

"  No,"  said  I,  "  that  sketch  was  only  a  joke, — 
to  tease  you." 

"  It  is  a  very  stupid  joke,"  she  said  coldly;  "  I 


158  The  Black  Water. 

cannot  understand  how  an  artist  could  bring  him 
self  to  do  such  a  thing." 

"  It  was  a  poor  joke,"  said  I,  red  as  fire,  "  par 
don  me,  Ysonde,  I  don't  know  what  possessed  me 
to  paint  like  that. ' ' 

She  picked  up  my  paint  rag  and  swept  it  across 
the  face  of  my  canvas;  then  turning  to  me  : 

"  Now  you  are  forgiven  ;  come  and  talk  to  me, 
Bobby." 

The  sun  climbed  to  the  zenith  and  still  we  sat 
there,  she  with  her  round  white  chin  on  her  wrist, 
I  at  her  feet. 

Billy,  who  had  descended  from  his  perch  in 
the  chestnut  tree  as  soon  as  he  heard  Ysonde' s 
voice,  rambled  about  us,  snuffing  and  snooping 
into  every  tuft  of  fern,  one  evil  eye  fixed  on  us, 
one  on  the  red  squirrel  who  chattered  and 
twitched  his  brush,  and  rushed  up  and  down  a  big 
oak  tree  in  a  delirium  of  temper. 

( '  No, ' '  replied  Ysonde  to  my  question,  ' '  Mr. 
Blylock  did  not  fish ;  he  talked  to  L,ynda  most  of 
the  time.  I  came  here  because  I  had  an  intuition 
that  you  were  going  to  paint. ' ' 

( '  But, ' '  said  I,  ' '  how  did  you  know  I  was  com 
ing  here  ?  I  never  before  painted  in  this  glade." 

"  I  don't  know  how  I  knew  it,"  said  Ysonde, 
slowly. 

"Witchcraft?"  Tasked. 

"  Possibly,"  she  said,  with  an  almost  impercep 
tible  frown. 

"  I  have  noticed  already,"  I  said,  "  that  you 


The  Black  Water.  159 

have  a  mysterious  faculty  for  reading  my  thoughts 
and  divining  my  intentions.  Are  you  aware  of 
it?" 

11  No,"  she  said  shortly. 

' '  But  you  have, ' '  I  persisted. 

' c  You  flatter  yourself,  Bobby.  I  am  not  think 
ing  of  you  every  minute. ' ' 

"  Suppose,"  said  I,  after  a  moment's  silence, 
' '  that  you  loved  me — 

' '  I  shall  not  suppose  so, ' '  she  answered  haugh 
tily. 

"  L,et  us  suppose,  then,"  said  I,  "  that  I  love 
you — 

' '  Really,  Bobby,  you  are  more  than  tiresome. ' ' 

I  thought  for  a  while  in  silence.  The  wood- 
thrush,  who  had  come  quite  close  to  Ysonde — all 
wild  creatures  loved  her — began  to  sing.  The 
baby  rabbit  sat  up  to  listen  and  wriggle  its  nose, 
and  the  speckled  gnats  danced  giddily. 

' '  Suppose, ' '  said  I,  with  something  in  my  voice 
that  silenced  her,  "  suppose  that  you  loved  me, 
and  that  I  had  lost  my  eye.  Would  you  still  love 
me?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Ysonde,  with  an  effort. 

* '  And  suppose, ' '  I  continued,  ' '  I  had  been 
born  with  an  eye  blind  ;  could  you  have  loved 
such  a  man  ?  ' ' 

' '  I  do  not  think  I  could, ' '  she  answered  truth 
fully. 

"  Probably  not,"  I  repeated,  biting  the  stem  of 
a  wild  strawberry.  After  a  moment  I  looked  up 


160  The  Black  Water. 

into  the  sky.  The  hawk  was  not  there  ;  but  I 
was  not  looking  for  the  hawk. 

"  Come,"  said  I,  rising,  "  dinner  must  be  ready 
and  your  aunt  should  not  be  kept  waiting. ' ' 

I  gathered  up  my  sketching  kit,  tenderly  per 
haps,  for  I  should  never  use  it  again,  and  whistled 
Billy  to  heel, — which  he  did  when  he  chose. 

Perhaps  it  was  something  in  my  face — I  don't 
know — but  Ysonde  suddenly  came  up  to  me  and 
took  both  my  hands. 

' '  Are  you  going  to  be  sensible,  Bobby  ?  ' '  she 
asked.  Her  face  was  very  serious. 

"  Yes,  Ysonde,"  I  said. 

But  she  did  not  seem  satisfied — there  came  a 
faint  glow  on  her  face — it  may  have  been  a  sun 
beam — and  she  dropped  my  hands  and  whistled  to 
Billy. 

1 '  Come  !  ' '  she  cried,  with  a  tinge  of  anger  in 
her  voice  that  I  had  never  before  heard, —  "  heel, 
Billy!" 

But  as  Billy  lingered,  sniffing  and  rooting 
among  the  ferns,  she  picked  up  a  twig  and  struck 
Billy  on  the  nose.  The  blow  was  gentle — it 
would  not  have  hurt  a  mosquito — but  I  was  as 
tounded,  for  it  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  seen 
her  lift  her  hand  in  anger  to  any  living  creature. 
Perplexed  and  wondering  I  followed  her  through 
the  forest,  my  locked  colour-box  creaking  on  my 
shoulder. 


IV. 


"  HT^O  him  that  hath  shall  be  given,  and  from 
him  that  hath  not,  shall  be  taken  away 
even  that  which  he  hath, ' '  said  I,  knock 
ing  my  pipe  against  the  verandah  railing. 

"Scripture,"  said  Blylock,  approvingly. 

* '  For  this  is  the  law  and  the  prophets, ' '  I  con 
tinued,  grateful  that  the  Bible  had  received  Bos 
ton's  approval. 

' '  Scripture, ' '  repeated  Blylock,  with  the  smile 
of  a  publisher  mentioning  the  work  of  a  very 
young  author. 

"  Exactly,"  I  replied,  "  also  the  Koran;  I  for 
get  whether  Tupper  mentions  it." 

' '  Probably, ' '  said  Blylock  seriously. 

* '  Probably, ' '  I  repeated,  inserting  a  straw  in 
the  stem  of  my  pipe.  Ysonde  frowned  at  me. 
' '  Blylock, ' '  I  continued,  smiling  at  nothing, 
* '  have  you  read  Emerson  ?  ' ' 

* '  Heavens  !  ' '  murmured  Blylock  under  his 
breath. 

I  had  aroused  him.     I  made  it  a  point  to  stir  him 
up  once  every  day,  satisfied  to  allow  him  to  relapse 
into  his  normal  Beacon  Street  trance  afterward. 
161 


1 62  The  Black  Water. 

' '  Your  scriptural  quotation, ' '  said  Ysonde,  with 
a  dangerous  light  in  her  eyes,  ' '  would  indicate 
that  you  have  suffered  a  loss. ' ' 

"  From  him  that  hath  not,  shall  be  taken  away 
even  that  which  he  hath,"  I  repeated;  "yes, 
having  nothing,  I  have  lost  all  I  have,  which,"  I 
continued,  "is  of  course  nothing.  But  I  am  en 
croaching  on  Brook  Farm, — and  the  Koran " 

* '  And  on  the  patience  of  your  friends, ' '  said 
Ysonde;  "  don't  try  to  be  epigrammatic,  Bobby." 

There  was  a  glass  of  water  standing  on  a  table 
to  my  right.  I  did  not  see  it,  my  right  eye  being 
sightless,  and  I  knocked  it  over.  I  was  confused 
and  startled  at  this — it  brought  back  to  me  my 
misfortune  so  cruelly  that  I  apologized  more  than 
was  necessary,  and  received  a  puzzled  stare  from 
Ysonde.  I  noted  it  and  chafed  helplessly.  L,ynda 
Sutherland  came  out  on  the  porch,  and  I  rose  and 
brought  her  a  chair. 

' '  The  moonlight  reminds  me  of  Venice, ' '  said 
I/ynda,  turning  her  lovely  face  to  the  moon. 

We  all  agreed  with  her,  although  we  knew  it 
was  nonsense,  for  we  all  had  lived  in  Venice.  If 
she  had  said  it  reminded  her  of  peach  ice-cream, 
we  would  have  agreed.  She  was  too  beautiful  for 
one  to  analyze  what  she  said — she  was  too  beauti 
ful  to  analyze  it  herself.  I  remembered  with  a 
shock  that  the  late  lamented  had  once  referred 

to  his  wife's  being  "  d nd  ornamental,"  and  I 

was  glad  the  panther  had  clawed  his  besotted  soul 
from  his  body.  But  Sutherland  had  never  said  a 


The  Black  Water. 


163 


Ing  in  his  life  ;  drunkard  that  he  was,  he 
spoke  the  truth. 


ula, ' '  cooed  Ysonde,  * '  do  you  think  that 
Lit  camp  for  a  few  days  with  Bobby  and 
V        II /lock?    They    are   going    to   the    Black 
A     ;t;  t|    ;>morrow  and  Mr.  Blylock  asked  us." 
'  1 II  take  two  guides, ' '  added  Blylock,  vaguely. 


../ 


1 64  The  Black  Water. 

thers  ranging  between  the  Gilded  Dome  and 
Crested  Hawk.  Sometimes  they  get  as  far  as 
Noon  Peak  and  the  White  L,ady,  sometimes  even 
as  far  as  I/ynx  Peak,  but  I  never  heard  of  any 
thing  bigger  than  a  lynx  being  seen  near  the 
Black  Water." 

' '  I  have  been  in  these  forests  every  summer 
and  autumn  for  twenty  years,"  said  Ely  lock, 
"  and  I  never  saw  either  panther  or  lynx;  have 
you?"  he  ended,  turning  toward  me.  Then, 
recollecting  that  I  had  witnessed  the  mauling  of 
the  late  lamented,  he  turned  rosy,  and  I  was 
pleased  to  see  that  he  was  capable  of  experiencing 
two  whole  emotions  in  one  evening. 

I  did  not  answer — it  was  not  necessary,  of 
course.  I  could  show  him  the  panther  skin  in  my 
studio  some  day  when  I  wanted  to  take  a  rise  out 
of  him.  It  measured  nine  feet  from  tip  to  tip — it 
might  have  measured  more  had  the  panther  had 
time  to  nourish  himself  with  Sutherland. 

Now  Ysonde  must  have  read  what  was  passing 
in  my  mind,  for  she  looked  shocked  and  nestled 
closer  to  I^ynda. 

' '  What  is  a  lynx,  * '  demanded  I/ynda,  shivering. 

' '  There  are  two  species  found  here, ' '  replied 
Blylock,  glad  to  change  the  subject,  "one  the  big 
grey  Canada  lynx,  the  other  the  short-tailed 
American  lynx " 

' '  Otherwise  Bob-cat,  I,ucivee,  and  wild-cat, ' '  I 
interposed  ;  ' '  they  make  a  horrid  noise  in  the 
woods  and  are  harmless." 


The  Black  Water.  165 

' '  If  you  let  them  alone, ' '  added  Blylock,  con 
scientious  to  the  end. 

' '  Which  we  will, ' '  said  Ysonde,  gaily,  ' '  we  are 
going,  are  we  not,  L,ynda  ?  ' ' 

' '  No, ' '  said  Lynda,  firmly. 

But  the  next  morning  when  the  first  sunbeams 
scattered  the  mist  which  clung  to  copse  and 
meadow,  and  sent  it  rolling  up  the  flanks  of  the 
Gilded  Dome,  L,ynda  said,  '  *  Yes, ' '  and  possibly 
her  pretty  mountain  costume  tipped  the  balance 
in  Ysonde' s  favour,  for  Lynda  looked  like  a  fin-de- 
siecle  Diana  in  that  frock  and  she  knew  it,  bless 
her  fair  face  ! 

The  guides,  Jimmy  Ellis  and  Buck  Hanson, 
were  tightening  straps  and  rolling  blankets  on  the 
lawn  outside. 

' '  Buck, ' '  said  I,  € '  how  many  pounds  do  you 
take  in  ?  " 

'  *  Fifty,  sir, ' '  drawled  Buck,  wiping  the  sweat 
from  his  face  with  the  back  of  his  hand. 

"  And  you,  Jimmy  ?  "  I  asked. 

' '  Abaout  forty,  sir, ' '  replied  Ellis,  seriously. 

' '  I  cal' late, ' '  added  Buck,  ' '  the  ladies  will  want 
extry  blankets." 

"They  will,"  I  replied,  "the  wind  is  hauling 
around  to  the  northwest."  Then  I  took  a  step 
nearer  and  dropped  my  voice. 

' '  Any  panthers  seen  lately,  Jimmy  ?  ' ' 

"  I  hain't  seed  none,"  replied  Ellis. 

"What  was  it  killed  the  white  heifer  two 
weeks  ago  ?  ' ' 


1 66  The  Black  Water. 

"Waal,"  replied  Jimmy  reflecting  a  little,  "I 
cal'late  t  'war  a  cat." 

"  It  maught  be  a  b'ar,"  said  Buck,  "  I  seed  one 
daown  to  Drake's  clearin'  last  week  come  Sab 
bath." 

' '  Sho  ! '  *  drawled  Ellis,  returning  to  his 
blankets. 

"I  understand,"  said  I,  "that  Ezra  Field 
found  a  thirty-pound  trap  missing  last  week." 

"  Whar  ?  "  asked  Hanson. 

' '  Back  of  the  gum-camp  on  Swift  River, ' '  I 
replied. 

Ellis  looked  cynical  and  Hanson  laughed,  the 
silent  confiding  laughter  of  the  honest. 

1 '  Ezry  was  scairt  haf  tu  deth  by  a  Bob-cat, 
onct,  into  Swift  River  Forks, ' '  said  Ellis  ;  "he 
sees  things  whar  there  hain't  nawthin'." 

"  Do  you  think,"  said  I,  after  a  long  pull  at 
my  pipe,  ' '  that  panthers  ever  attack  ?  I  mean, 
when  you  let  their  cubs  alone. ' ' 

"  Hain't  never  seed  no  panther,"  replied  Buck. 

' '  You  saw  Mr.  Sutherland  when  he  was 
brought  in  three  years  ago. ' ' 

"  Yes  sir — you  and  Cy  Holman  toted  him  in." 

' '  Well,  you  saw  the  panther  we  brought  in 
also,  did  n't  you  ?  " 

"Yes  sir, — but  that  was  a  daid  panther,"  re 
plied  Buck,  prosaically. 

I  laughed  and  walked  toward  the  piazza. 

' '  All  I  want  to  know  is  whether  you  fellows 
have  heard  that  these  creatures  are  bothering 


The  Black  Water.  167 

honest  people  wlio  mind  their  business, ' '  I  said 
over  my  shoulder ;  and  both  the  big  guides 
laughed,  and  answered  "  No  fear  o'  that  sir  !  " 

Half  an  hour  later  we  were  on  the  trail  to  the 
Black  Water. 

The  morning  was  perfect,  the  air  keen  as  Sep 
tember  breezes  on  the  moors,  and  the  mottled 
sunlight  spotted  our  broad  trail  which  twisted 
and  curved  through  the  tangled  underbrush  along 
the  bank  of  a  mountain  stream. 

Blylock  and  Ysonde  were  well  ahead,  the  latter 
swinging  a  light  steelshod  mountain  stick;  next 
came  Lynda,  beautiful  and  serene,  approving  the 
beauty  of  the  forest  in  pleased  little  platitudes.  I 
followed  close  behind,  silent,  spellbound  by  the 
splendour  of  the  forest,  charmed  by  the  soft  notes 
of  the  nesting  thrushes  and  the  softer  babble  of 
L,ynda  and  the  brook. 

Broad  dewy  leaves  slapped  our  faces,  filmy  float 
ing  spiders'  meshes  crossed  our  chins  and  cheeks 
and  tickled  Ysonde's  pretty  nose." 

' '  You  may  walk  ahead, ' '  she  said  to  Blylock, 
"  and  break  the  spiders'  webs  for  me." 

' '  With  pleasure, ' '  said  Blylock,  seriously,  and 
I  saw  him  take  the  lead,  his  single  eyeglass 
gleaming  in  the  sunshine. 

"It  is  written,"  said  I,  flippantly,  "that  the 
first  shall  be  last,  and  the  last  shall  be  first;— I 
believe  that  I  should  take  the  lead." 

' '  Please  do, ' '  said  Ysonde,  coolly,  "  it  is  your 
proper  place, ' ' 


1 68  The  Black  Water. 

Now  Ysonde  had  never  before  said  anything  to 
me  quite  as  sharp  as  that,  although  doubtless  I 
had  often  invited  it. 

' '  Do  you  want  me  to  go  ?  "  I  asked  inanely. 

"  If  you  care  to  clear  the  path,  I  would  not 
object,"  said  Ysonde. 

"  For  you  and  Lynda,"  said  I,  feeling  that  I 
was  speaking  regardless  of  either  sound  or  sense. 

" And  for  Mr.  Blylock,"  added  Ysonde, 

quietly. 

"With  pleasure,"  said  I,  vaguely  wishing  my 
tongue  might  stop  wagging  before  I  said  some 
thing  hopelessly  foolish,  ' '  I  shall  clear  the  way 
for  you — and  Mr.  Blylock." 

I  had  said  it ;  even  Lynda  raised  her  lovely 
eyes  to  me  in  disapproval.  As  for  Ysonde,  her 
face  wore  that  pained  expression  that  I  dreaded 
to  see — I  had  never  seen  it  before  but  once — in 
the  glade — and  I  felt  that  my  proper  place  was 
among  the  wits  of  a  country  store.  A  boor  in  the 
kitchen  of  the  Rosebud  Inn  would  have  had  more 
instinctive  tact — unless  he  was  jealous! — that  is 
the  word! — I  was  jealous — vulgarly  jealous  of 
Blylock.  Perhaps  Ysonde  read  the  shame  in  my 
face,  perhaps  she  had  divined  my  thoughts  as  she 
did  when  she  chose,  but  she  saw  I  was  miserable, 
disgusted  with  myself,  and  she  raised  me  to  her 
own  level  with  a  smile  so  sweet  and  chivalrous 
that  I  felt  there  was  manhood  left  in  me  yet. 

"  Bobby,"  she  said,  "you  promised  to  show  me 
how  to  blaze  a  trail.  Have  you  forgotten  ?  ' ' 


The  Black  Water.  169 

I  dropped  out  of  the  path  to  the  right,  she  to 
the  left ;  Lynda  passed  us  to  join  Ely  lock  who 
was  waiting,  the  two  big  guides  tramped  by,  their 
boots  creaking  on  the  trodden  leaves.  I  drew  the 
light  hatchet  from  my  belt,  removed  the  leather 
blade-cover,  and  started  on. 

'  *  This  is  all  it  is, "  I  said,  and  struck  a  light 
shaving  from  the  bark  of  a  hemlock,  cutting  it  at 
the  base  with  the  next  stroke  so  that  the  bit  of 
bark  fell,  leaving  a  white  scar  on  the  tree  trunk. 

"  Always  on  both  sides,"  said  I,  repeating  the 
stroke  on  the  other  side  of  the  tree.  ' '  Will  you 
try  it,  Ysonde?" 

She  took  the  hatchet  in  her  small  gloved  hand, 
and  the  chips  flew  along  the  trail  until  I  begged 
her  to  spare  the  forest. 

"But  the  trees  don't  die  !"  she  exclaimed. 
"Oh,  Bobby,  you're  joking;  am  I  overdoing 
it?" 

"  A  little,"  said  I,  "  a  blind  man  could  follow 
this  forest  boulevard. ' ' 

' '  You  are  blind, ' '  she  said,  calmly. 

"  Blind  ?  "  I  cried  with  a  start. 

" To  your  own  interests,  Bobby.  Aunt 

L,ynda  likes  you,  but  she  doesn't  like  to  hear  you 
speak  flippantly.  If  you  destroy  her  trust  in  you, 
she  will  not  let  us  walk  together  when  we  please. ' ' 

We  moved  on  in  silence  for  a  while,  until 
Ysonde,  tired  of  blazing,  handed  me  the  hatchet. 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "  I  am  blind — I  cannot  lead  you 
— on  any  trail. ' ' 


170  The  Black  Water. 

4 '  Nor  I  you, ' '  she  said  simply. 

I  did  not  reply,  for  who  but  I  should  know  that 
through  the  fragrant  forest,  bathed  in  sun  and 
dew,  the  blind  led  on  the  blind. 

' '  You  have  formed  a  habit, ' '  said  Ysonde,  '  *  of 
muttering  to  yourself.  Are  you  afraid  to  have 
me  know  your  thoughts  ? ' ' 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  turning,  "  I  am  afraid." 

She  did  not  answer,  but  I  saw  her  colour  deepen, 
and  I  feared  that  I  had  spoken  bitterly. 

' '  I  was  thinking  that  I  had  forgotten  my 
flask,"  I  continued  gaily. 

* '  Mr.  Ely  lock  has  your  flask — you  were  not 
thinking  of  that, ' '  said  Ysonde. 

<c  Well,"  said  I,  "  then  tell  me  of  what  I  was 
thinking;  you  know  you  can  read  my  thoughts — 
when  you  take  the  trouble, ' '  I  added  prudently. 

' '  Bobby, ' '  said  Ysonde,  ' '  I  would  take  more 
trouble  for  your  sake  than  you  dream  of. ' ' 

I  stopped  short  in  the  trail  and  faced  her,  but 
she  passed  me  impatiently.  I  saw  her  bite  her  lips 
as  she  always  did  when  annoyed. 

The  chestnut,  oak,  and  dappled  beech-woods 
were  giving  place  to  pines  and  hemlocks  as  we 
wheeled  from  the  Gilded  Dome  trail  into  the  nar 
rower  trail  that  leads  over  the  long  divide  to  the 
Black  Water.  Along  the  rushing  stream  alder 
and  hazel  waved,  silver  birches  gleamed  deep-set 
in  tangled  depths,  and  poplars  rose  along  the 
water's  edge,  quivering  as  the  breezes  freshened, 
every  glistening  leaf  a-tremble. 


The  Black  Water.  171 

Under  foot,  brown  pine-needles  spread  a  polished 
matting  over  the  forest  mould,  for  we  had  entered 
the  pine  belt  and  the  long  trail  had  just  begun. 

The  breeze  in  the  pines  !  it  will  always  make 
me  think  of  Ysonde.  Wild  wind-swept  harmonies 
swelling  from  the  windy  ridge,  the  whisper  and 
sigh  and  rush  of  water,  the  grey  ledges,  the  deep 
sweep  of  precipices  where  lonely  rivers  glimmer, 
lost  in  the  sea  of  trees, — these  I  remember  as  I 
think  of  Ysonde,  these  and  more  too, — the  dome 
of  green,  the  fragments  of  sky  between  mixed 
branches,  the  silence,  broken  by  a  single  birdnote. 


The  trail  crossed  a  sunny  glade,  mossy  and 
moist,  bordered  by  black  birch  thickets  and  car 
peted  with  winter- green.  Ysonde  leaned  upon 
her  steel-shod  staff  and  looked  at  her  own  reflec 
tion  in  the  placid  spring  pool,  shining  among  the 
ferns. 

' '  I  am  very  much  tanned, ' '  she  said. 

"  Are  you  thirsty,"  I  asked. 

' '  There  is  a  little  freckle  beside  my  nose, ' '  ob 
served  Ysonde. 

"  It  is  becoming,"  I  said  truthfully. 

' '  Yes,  I  am  thirsty, ' '  said  Ysonde,  ' ' — what  do 
you  know  about  freckles  ?  ' ' 

I  handed  her  a  cup  of  water;  she  drank  a  little, 
looked  over  the  rim  of  the  cup  reflectively,  drank 
a  little  more,  sighed,  smiled,  and  poured  what 
was  left  of  the  water  upon  the  moss. 


172  The  Black  Water. 

f '  A  libation  to  the  gods, ' '  she  explained. 

"  To  which?"  I  asked. 

'  *  Ah,  she  said  ;  I  had  not  thought  of  that. 
Well,  then,  to— to— " 

I  looked  at  her  and  she  tossed  the  cup  to  me 
saying,  ' '  I  shall  not  tell  you.  I  am  getting  into 
the  habit  of  telling  you  everything. ' ' 

"  But — but  the  gentleman's  name  ?  "  I  urged. 

' '  No,  no  !  Goodness  !  may  I  not  have  a  secret, 
all  my  own  ?  ' ' 

"  Very  well,"  said  I,  "  you  pour  out  libations 
to  a  gentleman  god  and  I  shall  even  up  matters. 
Here  's  to  the  lady  !" 

' '  Minerva,  of  course.  You  are  so  wise, ' '  sug 
gested  Ysonde. 

"  It  's  neither  to  Minerva  nor  to  the  owl,"  said 
I,  "  it  's  to  the  I,ady  Aphrodite." 

' '  Pooh  !  ' '  said  Ysonde,  ' (  you  are  not  clever  ; 
Hermes  might " 

"Might  what?" 

' '  Be  careful,  Bobby,  your  sleeve  is  getting 
wet " 

"Might  what?" 

' '  Now  how  should  I  know, ' '  exclaimed  Ysonde, 
"  mercy,  I  'm  not  a  little  Greek  maiden  !  " 

I  strapped  the  cup  to  my  belt,  tightened  the 
buckle  of  my  rod-case,  lighted  my  pipe,  and  sat 
down  on  a  log. 

"Well,  Master  Bobby,"  said  Ysonde  in  that 
bantering  voice  which  she  used  when  perfectly 
happy. 


The  Black  Water.  173 

"Well,  Mistress  Ysonde,"  said  I. 

' '  Are  you  going  to  lose  the  others  ?  ' ' 

I  pointed  to  the  foot  of  the  long  slope,  where, 
among  the  tree  trunks,  something  blue  fluttered. 

"It  's  lyynda's  veil,"  said  Ysonde,  "  and  there 
is  Mr.  Blylock,  also  ;  they  are  sitting  down. ' ' 

"True,"  said  I,  "let  us  rest  also.  We  have 
been  hours  on  the  trail.  Here  is  a  dry  spot  on 
this  log." 

Ysonde  sat  down.  Now  whenever  Ysonde 
seated  herself  there  was  something  in  the  pose  of 
her  figure  that  made  me  think  of  courts  and  kings 
and  coronations.  The  little  ceremony  of  seating 
herself  ended,  I  resumed  my  seat  also,  feeling  it  a 
privilege  accorded  only  to  the  very  great.  I  told 
her  this  and  she  pretended  to  agree  with  me. 

' '  You  must  be  something  at  court, '  *  she  said, 
' '  you  cannot  be  an  earl,  for  earls  are  blond  and 
slender  ;  you  cannot  be  a  count,  for  counts  are 
dark  and  dapper  ;  nor  a  duke,  for  dukes  are  big 
and  always  red  in  the  face ;  you  might  be  a  baron 
—no,  they  are  fierce  and  merciless — 

"So  am  I." 

"No  you  're  not.  You  can't  be  a  marquis 
either,  for  they  are  plausible  and  treacherous " 

"  Then  I  '11  be  a  Master  of  'Ounds,"  I  insisted, 
"  let  the  title  go  by  the  board." 

She  agreed,  and  I  was  installed  Master  of  Stag- 
hounds  to  her  petite  Majesty — this  position  per 
mitting  me  to  sit  occasionally  in  her  presence. 

' '  I  am  thirsty  again, ' '  said  Ysonde. 


174  The  Black   Water. 

I  brought  her  a  cup  of  ice-cold  water  into  which 
I  dropped  a  dozen  wild  strawberries.  She  touched 
a  berry  with  the  tip  of  her  pink  tongue,  which  was 
bad  manners,  and  I  told  her  so. 

"  What  do  you  know  about  Queen's  eti 
quette  ?  ' '  she  said  disdainfully,  and,  finding  the 
berries  ripe,  she  ate  three  and  smiled  at  me. 

A  thrush  came  fearlessly  to  her  very  feet  and 
drank  from  the  spring ;  a  mottled  wood- toad  made 
futile  efforts  to  clamber  up  the  log  into  her  lap, 
and  two  red  lizards  peeped  at  her  from  a  cleft  in 
the  boulder  beside  us. 

"It  's  queer,"  said  I,  watching  the  scrambling 
toad,  ' '  how  you  seem  to  fascinate  all  wild  crea 
tures.  Shall  I  poke  the  toad  away  ?  ' ' 

' '  No,  I  am  not  afraid  ;  I  am  very  glad  they  all 
come  to  me. ' ' 

*  *  You  were  possibly  a  dryad  once, ' '  I  hazarded. 

"Possibly.     And  you?" 

"  Probably  the  oak  tree  that  sheltered  you." 

"Sheltered  me?" 

There  is  something  in  the  note  of  a  very  young 
bird  that  I  have  noticed  in  Ysonde's  voice,  but 
now,  as  she  laughed — oh,  such  soft,  sweet  laugh 
ter, — it  seemed  to  me  as  though  the  bird  had 
grown,  and  its  note  trembled  with  purer,  truer 
melody. 

' '  Sheltered  me !  I  imagine  it  !  "  she  said,  with 
a  wonderful  sweetness  in  her  eyes.  '  *  Hark  !  Mr. 
Blylock  is  calling  !  " 

She  rose  with  capricious  grace  as  I  answered 


The  Black  Water.  175 

Blylock  in  a  view-halloo  which  awoke  the  echoes 
among  the  cliffs  above  us. 

When  we  carne  up  to  them  I,ynda  linked  her 
arm  in  Ysonde's,  and  Blylock  and  I  pushed  ahead 
after  the  plodding  guides. 

Blylock  and  I  discussed  trout-flies  and  casts 
and  philosophy  with  an  occasional  question  to  the 
guides,  and  as  we  moved  I  could  hear  the  light 
laughter  of  L,ynda  and  the  clear  voice  of  Ysonde 
singing  old  songs  that  were  made  in  France  when 
hawk's-bells  tinkled  in  castle  courts  and  tasselled 
palfreys  pawed  the  drawbridge. 

It  was  noon  when  we  entered  the  Scaur  Valley, 
and  luncheon  was  grateful  ;  but  before  the  leading 
guide  entered  the  spotted  trail  which  swings  to 
the  west  above  the  third  spur  of  Crested  Hawk, 
the  sun  had  dropped  into  the  notch  between 
Mount  Eternity  and  the  White  Lady,  and  the 
alpen-glow  crimsoned  every  peak  as  we  threw 
down  our  packs  and  looked  out  across  the  Black 
Water.  "Here,"  said  I,  "  our  journey  ends; 
Princess  Ysonde, " — I  took  her  gloved  hand, — ' '  be 
seated,  for  below  you  lies  the  Black  Water — yours 
by  right  of  conquest. ' ' 

"  I  cal' late  't  '1  be  right  cold  to-night,  Ma'am," 
said  Buck  Hanson. 

"  Yes,"  said  Ysonde  listlessly. 


V. 


NIGHT  fell  over  the  Black  Water  before  the 
shelter  was  raised,  but  the  great  camp-fire 
lighted  up  the  cleared  space  among  the 
trees,  and  I  saw  Ellis  staggering  in  under  loads 
of  freshly-stripped  bark  for  our  roof.  Buck  Han 
son  finished  thatching  the  exposed  ends  with 
hemlock  and  spruce.  The  partition,  a  broad 
sheet  of  heavy  bark,  separated  the  lean-to  into 
two  sections,  one  for  Lynda  and  Ysonde,  the 
other  for  Blylock,  myself,  and  the  guides. 

I  had  roamed  about  the  underbrush,  lopping 
off  balsam  twigs  for  our  bedding  which  Blylock 
brought  in  and  spread  over  the  pine-needle  floor. 

When  Ellis  finished  roofing  the  hut  with  his 
thick  rolls  of  bark  I  sent  him  to  the  spring  below 
with  the  camp  kettle,  and  picking  up  an  axe, 
called  to  Buck  to  follow. 

' 1 1  should  very  much  like, ' '  said  Blylock  sol 
emnly,  '  *  to  chop  a  tree  into  sections  adequate  for 
the  camp  fire. ' ' 

' '  Take  the  axe  and  my  blessing, ' '  said  I,  ' '  I 
hate  to  chop." 

"It  's  very  good  of  you,"  said  Blylock,  follow- 
176 


The  Black  Water.  177 

ing  Buck  into  the  forest  where  our  firelight  glim 
mered  red  on  rugged  trunks  towering  into  the 
blackness  above. 

Ysonde  came  creeping  out  of  her  compartment, 
her  eyes  and  cheeks  brilliant  in  the  fire's  glare. 

"  Lynda  is  lying  down,"  she  said,  "  is  n't  sup 
per  nearly  ready  ?  How  delicious  our  bed  of  bal 
sam  smells;  what  are  you  doing  with  your  trout 
rod?" 

I  knotted  the  nine-foot  leader  to  the  line, 
slipped  on  an  orange  miller  for  a  dropper,  tied  a 
big  coachman  three  feet  above  it,  and  picked  up 
my  landing-net. 

"  What  is  home  without  a  dinner  ?  "  I  asked, 
' '  and  what  is  dinner  without  a  trout  ?  Come 
down  to  that  rock  which  hangs  over  the  Black 
Water,  and  you  shall  see  your  future  dinner  leap 
ing  in  the  moonlight. ' ' 

' '  Bobby  the  poet, ' '  said  Ysonde,  steadying  her 
self  by  my  arm  in  the  dark  descent  to  the  lake. 
' '  Poet  Bobby,  there  is  no  moon  on  the  Black 
Water." 

"  lyook,"  said  I,  pointing  to  a  pale  light  in  the 
sky  above  the  White  L,ady ,  ' '  the  moon  will  come 
up  over  that  peak  in  ten  minutes;  give  me  your 
hand,  it  's  very  dark." 

Clinging  closely  to  my  arm,  she  moved  through 
the  undergrowth  until  we  felt  the  firm  flat  rock 
under  our  feet.  The  rock  ran  straight  out  into 
the  water  at  right  angles  from  the  shore  like  a 
pier. 


1 78  The  Black  Water. 

( *  Be  careful — oh,  be  careful, ' '  she  urged,  ' '  you 
almost  walked  off  into  the  water  there  where  the 
shadows  lie  so  black." 

' '  Then  hold  me, ' '  said  I  diplomatically,  and  I 
felt  her  warm  hands  close  tightly  on  my  left  arm. 

The  moon  peeped  over  the  shoulder  of  the 
White  Lady  as  I  made  my  first  cast  into  the  dark 
ness  ahead,  and  I  saw  my  leader  strike  the  water, 
now  placidly  rocking  like  a  lake  of  molten  silver. 

' '  Oh-h  !  ' '  cried  Ysonde,  softly,  ' '  oh,  the  won 
drous  beauty  of  it  all. " 

In  the  silence  I  heard  the  thwack  of  an  axe 
from  the  woods  above  and  Blylock's  voice  quite 
plainly.  The  water  lapped  the  edges  of  the  rock 
below  us,  catching  thin  gleams  from  the  shining 
sheet  beyond,  and  my  silk  line  whistled  and 
whimpered  like  a  keen  wind  lashing  the  sea. 

Then  a  wonderful  thing  occurred.  Out  of  the 
depths  of  the  burnished  water  a  slim  shape  shot, 
showering  the  black  night  with  spray.  Splash! 
A  million  little  wavelets  hurried  away  into  the 
darkness,  crowding,  sparkling,  dancing  in  widen 
ing  circles,  while  the  harsh  whirr  of  the  reel  rang 
in  my  ears,  and  the  silk  line  melted  away  like  a 
thread  of  smoke.  The  rod  staggered  in  my 
hand. 

[ '  Ysonde,  there  are  two  on  now  !  "  I  whis 
pered. 

' '  Give  me  the  rod  ! ' '  she  said,  excitedly.  I 
handed  it  to  her,  and  for  a  moment  she  felt  the 
splendid  strain.  Then  the  fish  gave  a  deep  surge 


The  Black  Water.  1 79 

to  the  west,  and  she  gasped  and  pushed  the  rod 
into  my  hands. 

' '  Living  wild  things  struggling  for  life, ' '  she 
sighed.  "  Oh,  hurry,  Bobby, — it  pains  me  so!  " 
and  she  pressed  both  hands  to  her  breast. 

For  a  second  the  joy  of  the  battle  left  me.  I 
had  an  impulse  to  fling  the  rod  into  the  Black 
Water;  but  I  am  a  hunter  by  instinct. 

Deeper  and  deeper  surged  the  fish,  and  the  rod 
swayed  and  bent  until  the  tip  brushed  my 
knuckles. 

' '  Oh,  kill  the  creatures, ' '  murmured  Ysonde, 
"it  is  all  so  fierce  and  cruel, — I  never  thought 
you  were  like  that  !  ' ' 

' '  I  am, ' '  I  muttered,  checking  a  savage  sweep 
toward  the  north, — "  quick,  Ysonde — pass  me  my 
net." 

She  did  so,  and  I  crawled  down  to  the  water's 
edge,  shortening  my  line  at  every  step.  It  was 
soon  over ;  I  washed  my  hands  in  the  black  water, 
and  flung  the  fish  back  into  the  landing-net. 

"Now,"  said  I,  tossing  rod  and  net  over  my 
shoulder,  ' '  we  will  go  to  dinner  ;  lean  on  my 
shoulder  ; — how  brutal  you  must  think  me, 
Ysonde." 

"Yes,"  said  Ysonde. 

She  passed  me — perhaps  it  was  the  moonlight 
that  whitened  her  cheeks — and  I  saw  her  enter 
the  circle  of  red  firelight  as  Lynda  came  forward 
to  meet  her. 

"Hello,  Ellis  !"  I  called. 


i8o  The  Black  Water. 

' '  Hallo,  sir  !  "  came  back  from  the  spring 
among  the  rocks  below,  and  Jimmy  BHis  ap 
peared,  carrying  a  chunk  of  pork. 

' '  Two, ' '  I  said,  turning  the  trout  out  of  the 
landing-net. 

"  Good  fish,  sir,"  drawled  Ellis,  "  mor'n  'miff 
for  dinner,  I  suspicion. ' ' 

' '  Split  them, ' '  said  I,  ' '  broil  both  as  only  you 
can  broil  them.  Spring  all  right  ?  ' ' 

"  Sweet  an'  full.     Dinner  is  ready  above." 

Blylock  came  down  with  a  blazing  pine  knot  to 
inspect  the  fish,  and  I  heard  him  rigging  his  rod 
ten  minutes  later  as  I  walked  into  camp  and  sat 
down,  glowing  from  a  dip  in  the  tin  bucket  below. 

I/ynda  and  Ysonde  were  nibbling  away  at 
broiled  trout,  hot  toast,  and  potted  pheasant. 

' f  Dear  me, ' '  said  I^ynda,  ' '  I  really  must  not 
eat  like  this,  I  have  had  three  cups  of  bouillon  to 
begin  with.  Ysonde  says  you  are  the  cleverest 
angler  in  the  world.  ' ' 

' '  That,  of  course, ' '  said  Ysonde,  ' '  may  be  an 
exaggeration,  for  I  have  seen  very  few  anglers. ' ' 

"Oh,  you're  not  exaggerating  one  bit,"  I 
assured  her.  ' '  Is  there  any  toast  over  there  ?  ' ' 

Ivynda  deigned  to  serve  me  with  hot  bouillon 
and  Ysonde  tossed  a  slice  of  toast  to  me,  scandal 
izing  her  aunt. 

"You  little  savage,"  said  I^ynda,  reproach 
fully. 

"  Any  trout  left  ?  "  I  asked.  "  Where  is  Mr. 
Blylock?" 


The  Black  Water.  181 

"Here's  the  trout,"  smiled  Ysonde,  serving 
me  a  bit  of  the  crisp  pink  fish.  "  Mr.  Blylock 
said  *  ha  ! '  several  times  when  he  saw  your  two 
trout  and  went  down  to  the  rock  flourishing  his 
rod  very  recklessly. ' ' 

' '  Mr.  Blylock  never  flourishes  anything, ' '  ob 
served  Lynda. 

"  No,  he  waved  it  as  Merlin  might  have 
waved ' ' 

* '  Why,  Ysonde !  ' '  said  Lynda,  warmly. 

I  was  discreet  enough  to  finish  my  toast  in 
silence  ;  I  was  very  happy. 

' '  Now,  Sir  Fisherman, ' '  said  Ysonde,  ' '  a  cup 
of  this  white  wine  with  your  trout  ?  What  !  a 
whole  bottle  ?  Oh,  Lynda,  look  at  him  !  ' ' 

' '  I  see  him, ' '  said  Lynda,  sleepily,  ' '  I  wonder 
what  time  it  is." 

Buck  and  Jimmy,  having  finished  their  dinner, 
which  included  a  trout  between  them  and  a  gallon 
or  so  of  coffee,  piled  half  a  dozen  logs  on  the  fire, 
backed  them  with  half  a  tree  trunk,  said  good 
night  very  politely,  and  ambled  away  with  the 
dishes  and  a  pail  of  boiling  water.  Ten  minutes 
later  Blylock  came  in  with  three  fair-sized  fish, 
which  Lynda  admired  and  I  encored,  and  then 
Lynda  and  Ysonde  rose  with  deep  reverences, 
and  mockingly  prayed  to  be  allowed  to  retire. 

Buck  and  Jimmy  were  already  sound  asleep. 

"  If  they  snore,"  said  I,  "  there  will  be  murder 
done  on  Black  Water  shore." 

Blylock  lighted  a  cigar  and  I  my  pipe. 


1 82  The  Black  Water. 

"  I  never  sleep  well  in  camp  the  first  night," 
said  I. 

' '  No  ?  ' '  asked  Blylock,  politely. 

"  No,  you  old  jay,"  said  I,  for  I  was  becom 
ing  very  fond  of  Blylock.  That  broke  the  back 
of  Beacon  Street  for  the  moment,  and  Blylock 
blossomed  out  as  a  story-teller  without  equal.  I 
laughed  till  it  hurt  me,  softly,  of  course,  and  still 
Blylock,  imperturbable,  bland,  told  story  after 
story,  until  I  marvelled,  between  my  spasms  of 
laughter,  at  the  make-up  of  this  Bostoriian.  At 
last  he  went  to  bed,  mildly  suggesting  that  I  fol 
low  his  example,  which  I  did  after  I  finished 
my  pipe,  although  I  knew  I  should  sleep  but 
little. 

About  ten  o'clock  Buck  Hanson  snored.  I 
leaned  over  Blylock,  already  fast  asleep,  arid 
poked  the  wretched  Buck  until  he  stopped.  Ten 
minutes  later  Ellis  began  a  solo  which  I  have 
never  since  heard  equalled. 

"  Great  heavens  !  "  I  muttered,  and  jabbed  him 
viciously  with  my  rod-butt,  but  Jimmy  Ellis 
did  n't  wake,  and  before  I  knew  it,  Buck  Han 
son,  taking  a  mean  advantage,  chimed  in  with  a 
snort  that  would  have  done  credit  to  a  rogue  ele 
phant.  This  was  not  all.  I  dread  to  record  it, 
but  I  am  trying  to  tell  the  truth  in  this  story — I 
pray  the  lady  to  pardon  me  if  I  suggest  that  from 
the  other  side  of  the  bark  partition  came  a  sound, 
— delicate,  discreet,  but  continuous,  in  short,  a 
gentle — no  !  no  !  I  can  never  bring  myself  to 


The  Black  Water.  183 

write  it  down.  I  am  no  brute,  Madam — and, 
after  all,  only  men  snore. 

A  black  fly  got  into  my  neck  and  bothered  me; 
later  a  midge  followed  the  example  of  his  erring 
colleague.  To  slay  them  both  was  my  intention, 
and  in  doing  so  I  awoke  Blylock,  who  sleepily 
protested.  This  was  exasperating,  and  I  told  him 
so,  but  he  was  asleep  again  before  I  finished. 
Why  on  earth  I  should  never  be  able  to  sleep 
more  than  an  hour  or  so  on  my  first  night  in 
camp, — I  who  have  camped  in  the  forest  for  years, 
— I  never  can  understand. 

I  endured  the  concerted  snores  of  the  whole 
camp  as  long  as  I  could,  then  I  crawled  to  the  fire 
outside,  hauled  two  fresh  logs  into  the  blaze, 
swathed  myself  in  my  blankets,  lighted  a  fresh 
pipe,  and  sat  down  with  my  feet  to  the  heat  and 
my  back  against  a  sapling. 

Outside  the  wavering  ring  of  firelight  the  black 
ness  was  so  profound,  so  hoplessly  impenetrable 
that  I  wondered  whether  a  storm  was  rolling  up 
behind  the  Scaur.  Trees,  brush,  rocks,  and  ledges 
— the  whole  huge  forest,  root  and  branch,  seemed 
woven  together  into  curtains  of  utter  darkness 
which  wavered,  advanced,  and  receded  with  the 
ever  dying,  ever  leaping  flames.  There  was  no 
storm,  for  I  saw  stars  on  the  strip  of  darkness 
above — little  pale  stars,  timidly  glimmering  in  the 
depths  of  a  vast  vault.  The  moon  had  long  ago 
passed  behind  the  Scaur  —  that  sullen  mass  of 
menacing  ledges,  blackening  the  fathomless 


1 84  The  Black  Water. 

stretch  of  the  Black  Water.  There  were  noises 
in  the  forest,  stealthy  steps  and  timid  scratchings 
— now  faint,  as  if  across  the  rocking  lake,  now 
nearer,  now  so  sudden  and  sharp  that  I  involun 
tarily  leaned  forward,  striving  to  pierce  the  outer 
circle  of  gloom  beyond  the  fire  ring.  Once  some 
thing  brushed  and  rustled  among  the  leaves 
behind  me,  and  I  saw  a  grey  snake  glide  into  the 
warm  glow  by  my  feet. 

' '  Get  out, ' '  I  whispered,  with  a  gesture  of  an 
noyance. 

The  serpent  slowly  raised  its  head,  flashed  a 
forked  tongue  at  me,  swayed  a  moment,  then 
noiselessly  moved  on  into  the  night. 

' '  Salut  !  O  mon  Roi  !  ' '  said  a  low  voice  be 
hind  me,  and  Ysonde  crept  out  of  her  fragrant  bed 
of  balsam,  and  curled  up  in  her  blanket  at  my  feet. 

' '  Oh,  dear, ' '  she  sighed,  ' '  I  am  so  sleepy,  but 
I  can't  sleep.  Why  is  it,  Bobby  ? — I  have  n't 
closed  my  eyes  once." 

"  Then,"  said  I,  under  my  breath,  "  it  was  not 
you  who — 

11  Sh-h  !     Lynda  might  hear  you." 

"  Not  probable,  judging  from  symptoms." 

"  You  're  impertinent,  Bobby — hark  !  do  you 
hear?  What  was  it  ?" 

11  Anything  from  a  toad  to  a  porcupine  ;  the 
forest  is  always  full  of  sounds.  Are  you  warm, 
Ysonde?" 

"Yes, — and  so  sleepy  that  —  ah!  what  was 
that?" 

"  Anything  from  a  wood-mouse  to  a  weasel." 


The  Black  Water.  185 

''I  don't  believe  it." 

"  A  fawn,  perhaps — I  heard  deer  among  the 
pitcher-plants  at  the  head  of  the  Black  Water  a 
few  minutes  ago. ' ' 

' '  Gentle  things, ' '  murmured  Ysonde,  ' '  I  wish 
they  would  come  close  to  me;  I  love  them — I  love 
everything. ' ' 

' '  And  everything  on  earth  and  sea  loves  you, 
Ysonde." 

Her  lids  were  drooping,  and  she  smiled,  half 
asleep. 

"  Bobby,"  she  murmured,  "  I  believe  I  could 
sleep  here  by  you— you  make  me  sleepy." 

Her  head  drooped  and  rested  on  my  blanket. 
After  a  moment — it  may  have  been  an  hour — I 
whispered,  bending  above  her  :  "  Do  you  sleep, 
Ysonde  ?  ' '  and  again,  ' '  do  you  .sleep  ?  ' ' 

The  stars  flickered  and  died  in  the  heavens,  the 
flames  sank  lower,  lower,  and  the  great  black 
night  crept  into  the  camp,  smothering  the  fading 
fire  with  pale  shadows,  vague  and  strange, 
moving,  swaying,  until  my  eyes  closed  and  I 
slept. 

Was  it  a  second — was  it  an  hour  ?  I  sat  bolt 
upright  staring  at  the  dying  embers  before  me. 
A  bit  of  charred  log  fell  in  with  a  soft  crash  send 
ing  a  jet  of  sparks  into  the  air,  where  they  faded 
and  went  out.  Went  out  ?  There  were  two — 
two  big  green  sparks  that  had  not  faded  with  the 
others,  and  I,  half  asleep,  watched  them,  vaguely 
curious.  Ah  !  they  are  moving  now — no,  they 
are  still  again,  close  together. 


1 86  The  Black  Water. 

The  hair  stirred  on  my  head,  my  heart  ceased, 
thumped  once,  stopped — it  seemed  hours, — and 
leaped  into  my  throat,  almost  stifling  me  with  its 
throbbing.  I  was  not  dreaming,  for  I  felt  the 
sweat  trickling  in  my  eyebrows,  and  the  roots  of 
my  hair  were  cold  and  damp. 

Ysonde  moved  in  her  slumber,  frowned  and 
raised  her  hand. 

A  low  snarl  came  from  the  shadows.  Slowly 
the  power  of  thinking  returned  to  me,  but  my  eye 
never  left  those  two  green  sparks,  now  blazing 
like  lamps  there  in  the  darkness. 

When  would  the  thing  spring  ?  Would  I  have 
time  to  fling  Ysonde  behind  me  ?  Would  it 
spring  if  I  called  to  Blylock  ?  Blylock  had  a 
rifle.  Would  it  spring  if  I  moved,  or  if  Ysonde 
moved  again  ?  Gently,  scarcely  stirring,  I  tried 
to  free  my  knees,  and  the  creature  snarled  twice. 

"  It  's  against  all  precedent  in  these  woods,"  I 
thought,  ' '  for  any  of  the  cat  tribe  to  dare  attack  a 
camp. ' '  A  sudden  anger  took  possession  of  me, 
a  fury  of  impatience,  and  quick  as  the  thought,  I 
sprang  among  the  embers  and  hurled  a  glowing 
branch  straight  into  the  creature's  eyes.  What 
happened  after  that  I  can  scarcely  tell ;  I  know  a 
heavy  soft  mass  struck  me  senseless,  but  my  ears 
at  moments  ring  yet  with  that  horrid  scream 
which  seemed  to  split  and  tear  the  night  asunder, 
wavering,  quavering,  long  after  I  was  hurled  on 
my  back,  and  my  eyes  seemed  stark  open  in 
oceans  of  blood. 


VI. 


WHEN  I  came  to  my  senses  it  was  still  dark 
— or  so  it  seemed  to  me.  After  a  while 
I  felt  a  hand  shifting  the  bandage  which 
pressed  heavily  over  both  eyes,  and  in  a  moment 
or  two  somebody  raised  me  by  the  shoulders, 
somebody  else  by  the  knees,  and  I  heard  Blylock 
cock  his  rifle,  and  say:  ((  Give  me  that  torch, 
Buck,  and  walk  faster. ' ' 

"  Blylock,"  I  gasped,  "  they  're  lugging  me  in 
as  I  lugged  in  Sutherland — mauled  by  a  pan 
ther,"  and  I  laughed  miserably. 

"  Hello  !  "  said  Blylock,  in  a  low  voice,  "  I 
thought  you'd  brace  up ;  are  you  bleeding 
much?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  muttered;  "  what,  in  hell 's 
the  matter?" 

"  Matter  !  "  repeated  Blylock,  ((  the  forest  has 
gone  mad — it  's  preposterous,  but  the  woods  are 
full  of  bob-cats,  troops  of  'em,  and  the  skulking 
brutes  have  actually  got  the  nerve  to  follow  us." 

"Can't  I  walk?"  I  groaned.  "Where  is 
Ysonde  ?  ' '  — for  I  was  beginning  to  remember. 

' '  Walk  ? — yes,  if  you  want  to  bleed  to  death — 
187 


1 88  The  Black  Water. 

the  ladies  are  here  between  me  and  the  guides 
who  are  toting  you. ' ' 

' '  Ysonde, ' '  I  murmured,  c '  pardon  me  for  my 
profanity — I  am  dazed — where  are  you  ?  ' ' 

' '  Here,  Bobby, ' '  whispered  Ysonde  — ( '  close 
beside  you;  don't  talk,  dear,  you  are  very  much 
hurt." 

' '  Are  you  speaking  to  me,  Ysonde  ?  "  I  said, 
doubting  my  senses. 

: '  To  you,  Bobby, ' '  she  whispered  close  to  my 
ear,  "  did  n't  you  know  that  I  loved  you  ?  Ah, 
try  to  live  and  you  will  know  ! ' ' 

My  strength  was  ebbing  fast,  but  I  think  I 
muttered  something  that  she  understood,  for  the 
light  touch  of  her  hand  was  on  my  cheek,  and  I 
felt  it  tremble.  Somebody  gave  me  water, — I  was 
choking, — and  my  burning  lips  shrank  and 
cracked  beneath  the  cool  draught.  I  could  hear 
Jimmy  Kllis  muttering  to  Buck  Hanson,  and 
Hanson's  replies. 

"  lyook  out,  Buck,  here  's  a  rut, — Mr.  Blylock, 
can  you  dip  your  pine  knot  this  side  ? — so  fashion, 
— steady,  Buck." 

"  Steady,  it  is, — hold  up  his  legs, — Mr.  Blylock, 
throw  a  stun  by  that  windfall, — there  's  a  lucivee 
sneakin'  araound  in  behind " 

Crack  !  spoke  Blylock' s  rifle,  and  then  I 
heard  Buck's  nasal  drawl  :  "  A  stun  is  jest  's 
good,  Mr.  Blylock,  they  're  scairt  haf  tu  deth — I 
suspicion  it  's  the  pork  they  're  after  !  " 

*  *  Throw  that  pork  into  the  woods,  Jimmy, ' ' 


The  Black  Water.  189 

said  Blylock,  "  we  '11  be  in  before  long.  Good 
heavens  !  how  dark  it  is — lay  him  down  and 
throw  that  pork  away — there  may  be  a  panther 
among  them. ' ' 

"  There  be,"  drawled  Buck,  "  I  seen  him." 

"  You  did  ?  Why  did  n't  you  say  so  !  I  can't 
waste  cartridges  on  those  infernal  lynxes. ' ' 

"  I  sez  to  you,  Mr.  Blylock,  sez  I,  throw  stuns, 
it  's  jest  as  good,"  replied  Buck,  placidly;  and  I 
was  lifted  again,  fore  and  aft. 

1 1 1 1 '  s  incredible, ' '  grumbled  Blylock ;  ' '  what '  s 
got  into  all  these  moth-eaten  lynxes  and  mangy 
panthers;  I  've  been  twenty  years  in  these  woods, 
and  I  never  before  saw  even  a  tom-cat. ' ' 

' '  I  ain't  seed  nothing  like  this, — there  's  three  'r 
four  bob-cats  raound  us  now,  and  I  ha 'n't  never 
seed  but  one  so  close  before, — Jimmy  was  there 
that  night.  I  jest  disremember  if  it  was  abaout 
gummin'  time — 

Crack  !  went  Blylock' s  rifle,  and  I  heard  a 
whine  from  the  thickets  on  the  left. 

"  Thet  's  the  panther — let  him  hev  it  again," 
said  Kllis. 

Again  the  rifle  cracked. 

"  The  darned  cuss  !  "  drawled  Buck;  "  shoot 
again,  Mr.  Blylock  !  " 

"No  need,"  said  Ellis— "  listen  !  There  he 
goes  lopin'  off.  Hear  him  snarl  !  " 

"  Hit,  I  guess,"  said  Buck,  and  we  moved  on. 

Once  I  heard  Buck  complain  that  a  particularly 
bold  lynx  kept  trotting  along  the  trail  behind, 


The  Black  Water. 


"  smellin'  and  sniffin'  almighty  close  to  my 
shins,"  he  asserted,  and  there  certainly  was  an 
awful  yell  when  Blylock  wheeled  in  his  tracks  and 
fired.  I  heard  Kllis  laughing,  and  Buck  said, 
"  haow  them  lucivees  du  screech  !" 

"  Worse  'n  a  screech-owl,"  added  Ellis. 

That  is  the  last  thing  I  remembered  until  I 
woke  in  my  bed  in  the  Rosebud  Inn. 

The  bandage  was  still  on  my  eyes,  —  I  felt  too 
weak  to  raise  a  finger,  —  and  the  rest  of  my  body 
seemed  stiff  and  hard  as  wood.  I  heard  somebody 
rocking  in  a  rocking-chair  and  I  spoke. 

"I  am  here,"  said  Ysonde,  —  but  her  voice 
seemed  choked  and  unsteady. 

'  '  What  time  is  it  ?  "  I  asked,  incoherently. 

'  '  Half  past  eleven,  '  '  said  Ysonde. 

"  I  am  hungry,"  said  I,  and  that  was  my  last 
effort  until  they  brought  me  a  bowl  of  beef  broth 
with  an  egg  in  it,  and  I  had  managed  to  swallow 
it  all. 

I  heard  the  door  close,  and  for  a  moment  I 
thought  I  was  alone,  but  presently  the  rocking- 
chair  creaked,  and  I  called  again  :  '  *  Ysonde.  '  ' 

"I  am  here." 

'  '  What  is  the  matter  with  me  ?  '  ' 

"You  have  been  ill." 

"How  long?" 

'  '  Two  days,  Bobby.  You  will  get  well  —  the 
claws  poisoned  you.  Try  to  sleep  now." 

"What  claws?" 

"  The  —  the  panther's  —  don't  you  remember  ?  " 


The  Black  Water.  191 

* '  No — yes,  a  little.  Where  are  tlie  lynxes  ? 
Where  is  Blylock  ?  " 

Ysonde  laughed  softly. 

"  Mr.  Ely  lock  has  gone  to  Boston  on  important 
business.  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it  when  you 
can  get  up.  He  's  to  be  married." 

"And  Lynda?" 

"  Lynda  is  downstairs.     Shall  I  call  her  ?  " 

"No." 

The  next  day  I  drank  more  broth,  and  two 
days  later  I  sat  up, —  it  took  me  half  an  hour  and 
some  groans  to  do  so. 

"I  think,"  said  I,  listening  to  the  rocking- 
chair,  "  that  it  is  high  time  I  saw  something. 
Lift  my  bandage,  please,  Ysonde. ' ' 

' '  Only  one  side, ' '  she  said,  and  lowered  the 
cloth  that  concealed  my  right  eye — the  sightless 
one. 

There  was  a  silence,  a  wretched  moment  of 
suspense,  and  then  Ysonde  cried  :  ' '  What — what 
is  it — can't  you  see — can't  you  see  me  ! — Oh, 
Bobby  !" 

When  I  spoke  I  hardly  knew  what  I  said,  but 
it  was  something  about  Keen's  assuring  me  that 
nobody  but  an  oculist  could  tell  that  I  was  blind 
in  my  right  eye.  I  remember  I  felt  very  angry  at 
Keen,  and  demanded  to  know  how  Ysonde  could 
see  that  my  right  eye  was  sightless.  I  am  glad  I 
was  spared  the  agony  of  her  face — I  would  wil 
lingly  have  been  spared  the  agony  of  her  voice  as 
she  cried.  "  Did  I  do  that  ?" 


192  The  Black  Water. 

I  tried  to  move,  but  her  arms  were  about  me, — 
I  tried  to  explain,  but  her  warm  mouth  closed  my 
lips;  I  only  thought  that  it  was  very  pleasant  to 
be  blind. 

The  eyes  of  an  oculist  and  the  eyes  of  love  see 
everything.  Who  says  that  love  is  blind  ? 

Her  tears  fell  on  my  cheeks  ;  when  she  asked 
pardon,  I  answered  by  asking  pardon,  and  she — 
but,  after  all,  that  is  our  own  affair. 

' '  And  my  left  eye, ' '  said  I,  "is  that  gone, 
too?'' 

*  *  Almost  well, ' '  said  Ysonde,  ' '  it  was  a  sympa 
thetic  shock,  or  something;  I  was  afraid  the  claws 
had  struck  it,  but  Dr.  Keen " 

"Keen  !" 

"Yes — he  's  gone  to  Holderness  now.  Don't 
you  remember  his  being  here  with  Dr.  Conroy, 
the  surgeon  ?  ' ' 

"No,"  said  I,  "  I  was  too  badly  mauled.  I 
have  been  clawed  by  a  panther,  then  ?  ' ' 

' '  A  little, ' '  said  Ysonde,  with  gentle  sarcasm. 

After  a  moment  I  inquired  about  the  present 
health  of  the  panther,  and  was  assured  that  he 
was  probably  flourishing  his  tail  in  excellent  spir 
its  somewhere  among  the  Scaur  crags. 

"  Then  Blylock  did  n't  hit  him  ?  " 

c '  He  hit  something,  for  I  heard  it  scream — Oh, 
my  darling,  what  a  horrible  night  ! — and  you 
dying,  as  I  believed,  and  the  tangled  brush,  and 
the  flare  of  the  torch,  and  the  firing  " — 


The  Black  Water.  193 

"Are  you  thirsty? — your  lips  are  burning," 

said  Ysonde. 

*****  # 

I  have  a  joke  on  Keen — James  Keen,  the  great 
oculist,  the  wise,  the  infallible, — and  I  trust  he 
will  swallow  his  medicine  like  a  little  man  when 
he  reads  this.  It  happened  in  this  way. 

I  was  sitting  under  the  trees  by  the  Tennis 
Court  with  Ysonde,  watching  the  snow-birds  flut 
tering  in  the  meadow  grass,  and  listening  to  the 
robin  who,  boldly  balanced  on  the  tip  of  his  spruce 
tree,  was  doing  his  best.  The  blue-birds  were 
teaching  their  young  to  navigate  the  air,  twitter 
ing  and  tittering  at  the  efforts  of  their  youngsters, 
a  truly  frivolous  family.  The  drab-coloured  cow 
had  also  done  her  best,  and  the  result  was  a  minia 
ture  copy  of  herself,  also  an  expert  cud-chewer. 

Billy — Ridiculous  Billy,  the  white-whiskered 
and  malicious,  was  spread  in  the  low  forks  of  an 
apple  tree,  a  splendid  representation  of  a  disrepu 
table  door-mat. 

Lynda  sat  at  the  bay-window  in  the  Rosebud 
Inn,  embroidering  something  in  white  and  gold. 
She  also  succeeded  in  doing  her  best  in  her  own 
line,  which  was  to  look  more  beautiful  every  day. 
I  saw  Bly lock's  shadow  behind  her. 

"  When  are  they  to  be  married,  Ysonde?"  I 
asked  for  the  fiftieth  time. 

"  On  the  twenty-seventh, — oh,  Bobby,  it  's 
shocking  to  keep  forgetting  —  and  we're  to  be 

best  man  and  bride's  maid,  too  !  " 
13 


194 


The  Black  Water. 


The  sun  dazzled  my  left  eye,  and  I  closed  it  for 
a  second.  Then  a  miraculous  thing  happened, 
an  everlasting  joke  on  Keen,  for,  although  I  had 
closed  my  sound  eye,  and,  by  rights,  should  have 
been  blind  as  a  bat,  I  was  nothing  of  the  kind. 

* '  My  right  eye — Ysonde — I  can  see  ! — Do  you 
understand  ?  I  can  see  !  "  I  stammered. 

Oh,  it  was  glorious — glorious  as  the  joyous 
wonder  in  Ysonde' s  eyes  ! — it  was  a  miracle.  I 
don't  care  what  Keen  says  about  it  having  hap 
pened  before,  or  about  it  happening  once  in  ten 
thousand  cases,  and  I  don't  care  a  brass  farthing 
for  his  subsequent  observations  concerning  the 
optic  nerve,  and  partial  paralysis,  and  retinas,  and 
things, — it  was  and  must  remain  one  of  God's  mir 
acles,  and  that  is  enough  for  Ysonde  and  for  me. 

' '  We  will  go  to  the  glade  and  repaint  my  pic 
ture  which  you  erased,"  said  I. 

She  understood  and  forgave  me,  for  I  hardly 
knew  what  I  was  saying. 

' '  Come, ' '  she  said — her  eyes  were  wonderfully 
sweet,  and  bluer  than  the  flowering  flax  around 
us. 

So,  with  her  hand  in  mine,  we  walked  up 
the  scented  path  to  the  Rosebud  Inn,  Billy  lum 
bering  along  behind  us,  twitching  his  hoary 
whiskers. 


IN  THE  NAME  OF  THE  MOST  HIGH. 


"  II  n'est  pas  ne"cessaire  qu'il  y  ait  de  1'amour  dans  tm 
livre  pour  nous  charmer,  mais  il  est  ndcessaire  qu'il  y  ait 
beaucoup  de  tendresse." 

J. 


IN  THE  NAME  OF  THE 
MOST  HIGH. 


i. 


ON  the  third  day  toward  noon  the  fire  slack 
ened  ;  the  smoke  from  the  four  batteries 
on  the  bluff  across  the  north  fork  of  the 
river  slowly  lifted,    drifting  to  the   east.      The 
Texas  riflemen  kept  up  a  pattering  fusilade  until 
one  o'clock,  then  their  bugles  rang  "  Cease  fir 
ing,  ' '  and  the  echoes  of  the  last  sulky  shot  died 
out  against  the  cliffs. 

Keenan,  crouching  behind  one  of  his  hot  guns, 
could  see  the  Texas  sharpshooters  retiring  to  the 
bluff,  little  grey  shadows  in  the  scrub-oak  thicket 
gliding,  flitting  like  wild  hedge-birds  toward  the 
nest  of  cannon  above. 

"  Don't  let  'em  get  away  like  that  !  "  shouted 
Douglas,  "  give  it  to  them  in  the  name  of 
God  !" 

And  Keenan  smiled,   and  sent  the  Texans  a 
messenger  in  the  name  of   God — a    messenger 
197 


198     In  the  Name  of  the  Most  High. 

which  fell  thundering  from  the  sky  above  them, 
crushing  the  face  of  the  iron-stained  cliff  and  the 
lives  of  those  who  had  clustered  there  to  breathe 
a  little. 

' c  Amen, ' '  said  Keenan,  patting  his  gun. 

Douglas  crawled  out  of  a  hole  in  the  rocks  and 
drew  himself  up  to  the  edge  of  the  breastworks. 
Cleymore  emerged  from  a  shallow  rifle-pit  and 
walked  slowly  along  the  intrenchments,  motion 
ing  his  men  back  into  their  burrows. 

"  Because,"  he  said,  "  a  hole  in  the  hill  is 
worth  two  in  your  head — get  into  that  ditch,  Mor 
ris  ! — Cunningham,  if  you  don't  duck  that  red 
head  of  yours,  I  '11  dock  it  !  " 

"  Captain  Cleymore,"  said  Douglas,  lowering 
his  field-glass,  * '  two  batteries  have  limbered  up, 
and  are  trotting  toward  the  cemetery ' ' 

'  *  May  they  trot  into  it,  and  stay  there  ! ' ' 
said  Keenan,  examining  the  wreck  of  an  ammu 
nition  chest  in  the  ditch. 

Cleymore  studied  the  bluff  with  his  marine 
glasses  for  a  while,  then  called  to  Keenan :  ' '  How 
many  guns  have  you  now  ?  ' ' 

"  Four,"  shouted  Keenan  from  the  ditch;  "  all 

my  horses  are  shot  except  two  mules ' '  A  burst 

of  laughter  cut  him  short — his  own  tattered  artil 
lerymen,  to  their  credit,  did  not  smile,  but  Doug 
las  and  Kellogg  laughed  and  rows  of  grinning 
faces  emerged  from  holes  and  pits  along  the  ditch 
until  Cleymore  shouted,  ' '  Down  ! ' '  and  his  infan 
try  disappeared,  chuckling.  Keenan,  red  in  the 


In  the  Name  of  the  Most  High.      199 

face,  turned  to  his  battery-men  who  were  running 
the  guns  forward,  and  put  his  own  ragged  shoul 
der  to  the  wheel.  Cleymore  sat  down  on  a  stone 
and  watched  a  lank  artilleryman  splicing  the 
dented  staff  of  the  battery  guidon. 

"  I  guess  that  '11  dew,  Capting,"  he  drawled, 
holding  the  staff  out  to  Cleymore,  who  took  it  and 
rubbed  the  polished  wood  with  his  sleeve. 

"It  will  do,  Pillsbury,"  he  said,  "where  is 
O'Halloran?" 

' '  Shot  in  the  stummick, ' '  said  the  private,  * '  and 
unable  tew  work." 

"  Dead?" 

"  I  pre-sume  likely  he  's  daid,  sir,"  returned 
Pillsbury  through  his  nose. 

"  I  've  got  a  man  for  the  guidon,"  called  Kee- 
nan  from  the  ditch,  and  a  fat  freckled  cannoneer 
waddled  forward  and  stood  at  attention. 

' '  lyook  out  !  ' '  sang  out  Douglas  from  his  post 
on  the  breastworks,  and  "Down!"  cried  Cley 
more,  as  a  shell  rose  in  the  air  over  them  and  the 
boom  of  a  gun  rolled  across  the  river  from  the 
bluff.  The  scream  of  the  shell  ceased ;  a  white 
cloud  shot  with  lightning  appeared  in  the  air  above 
them,  and  a  storm  of  shrapnel  swept  the  breast 
works.  Cleymore  sprang  to  his  feet,  but  the  fat 
cannoneer  remained  on  the  ground., 

"  Get  up,"  said  Cleymore,  cautiously,  "  Pills- 
bury  lift  him ;  is  he  dead  ?  ' ' 

' '  I  guess,"  said  Pillsbury,  "  he 's  sufferin'  from 
a  hereditary  disease. ' ' 


2OO     In  the  Name  of  the  Most  High. 

' '  Eh  ?  What  disease  ?  ' '  snapped  Cleymore, 
stepping  forward. 

"  I  guess  it  's  death,"  said  Pillsbury,  with  an 
expressionless  wink. 

Cleymore  stared  at  him  through  his  eyeglasses, 
then  turned  on  his  heel. 

"I  wish,"  grumbled  Keenan,  "that  the 
wounded  would  make  less  noise.  Douglas,  send 
them  another  bucket  of  water,  will  you  ?  Is  the 
surgeon  dead  ?  ' ' 

"  Dying,"  said  Kellogg, — "  never  mind,  Doug 
las,  I  '11  see  to  the  water;  keep  your  glass  on 
their  batteries;  what  are  they  doing  now  ?  " 

' '  Nothing, ' '  replied  Douglas,  * '  wait  a  bit — ah ! 
here  come  their  sharpshooters  again  ! ' ' 

"  To  hell  with  them  !  "  muttered  Keenan  sav 
agely,  for  his  battery-men  had  been  cruelly 
scourged  by  the  sharpshooters,  and  he  almost 
foamed  with  rage  when  he  looked  over  into  the 
ditch  at  the  foot  of  the  mound.  The  odour  from 
the  ditch  had  become  frightful. 

' '  L,ook  down  there,  Captain, ' '  he  called  to 
Cleymore,  his  voice  trembling  with  passion,  but 
Cleymore  only  nodded  sadly.  He  was  watching 
something  else.  A  figure  in  the  uniform  of  a 
staff-officer,  filthy  with  grime  and  sweat,  had 
crawled  through  what  was  left  of  the  covered 
bridge  across  the  South  Fork,  and  was  wriggling 
his  way  toward  the  debris  of  Keenan' s  battery. 
Cleymore  watched  him  with  puckered  eyes. 

"What  do  you  want,  sonny?"  he  asked,  as 


In  the  Name  of  the  Most  High.     201 

the  staff  officer  crept  past  him, — "  orders  ?  Give 
'em  to  me — keep  to  the  ground,  you  fool,"  he 
added,  as  a  flight  of  bullets  swept  overhead.  The 
staff -officer  lifted  a  flushed  face,  scratched  and 
smeared  with  dust  and  sweat,  and  attempted  a 
salute. 

"  Colonel  Worth's  compliments  to  Colonel  Ran 
dal —  '  he  began,  but  was  interrupted  by  Cley- 
more:  "  Colonel  Randal 's  in  the  ditch  below  with 
most  of  his  regiment  piled  on  top  of  him.  What 
are  your  orders  ? — hold  on  to  the  bridge  till  hell 
freezes  ? — I  thought  so, — I  'm  Cleymore,  Captain 
in  the  loth  New  York  Sharpshooters,  yonder  's 
what  's  left  of  us,  and  there  's  two  dozen  of 
Colonel  Randal's  Rhode  Islanders  among  'em, 
too.  Major  Wilcox  has  got  a  hole  in  his  face,  and 
can't  speak — you  see  what 's  left  of  Keenan's  bat 
tery — four  guns,  and  few  to  serve  'em  except  my 
riflemen.  Is  n't  General  Hooker  in  sight  ?  " 

The  staff-officer  raised  his  blue  eyes  to  the 
wreck  of  the  battery,  and  then  looked  question- 
ingly  at  Cleymore.  The  latter  lay  moodily  twist 
ing  and  untwisting  the  stained  leather  thong 
whipped  about  his  sword  hilt. 

"  I  'm  ranking  officer  here,"  he  said,  "the  rest 
are  dead.  My  compliments  to  General  Kempner, 
and  tell  him  his  orders  shall  be  obeyed.  Both 
bridges  are  mined.  Murphy  is  watching  for 
L,ongstreet — What  are  you  shivering  for  ? ' ' 

"  Ague,"  said  the  staff-officer  in  a  low  voice. 

Cleymore  spat  out  a  mouthful  of  dust  that  a 


2O2     In  the  Name  of  the  Most  High. 

bullet  had  flung  in  his  face,  and  wiped  his  glasses 
on  his  sleeve.  ' '  Who  are  you  from,  anyway  ?  ' ' 
he  demanded.  "  I  don't  take  orders  from  Colonel 
Worth." 

' '  General  Kempner  is  dead, ' '  said  the  staff- 
oflicer  simply. 

Keenan  came  up  chewing  a  twig  and  whistling. 

' '  Captain  Cleymore, ' '  said  the  staff-officer, 
' '  my  horse  has  been  shot  and  Colonel  Worth  is 
waiting.  Will  you  point  out  to  me  the  quickest 
way  back  ?  ' ' 

"Back  !"  broke  in  Keenan,  "you  can't  get 
back,  my  boy  ! ' ' 

' ( I  must, ' '  said  the  youngster,  without  glan 
cing  at  the  artillery  officer. 

"  Oh,  if  it  's  a  case  of  must,"  said  Cleymore  in 
differently,  '  *  come  ahead, ' '  and  he  rose  to  his 
knees  and  peered  across  the  swollen  South  Fork, 
now  a  vast  torrent  of  mud. 

Crack  !  Crack  !  rang  the  rifles  from  the  oppo 
site  shore,  and  the  little  staff-officer's  cap  was 
jerked  from  his  head  and  rolled  down  the  em 
bankment  into  the  river.  Keenan  cursed. 

' '  Come  on,  sonny, ' '  said  Cleymore,  scrambling 
down  the  embankment  to  the  ditch.  The  ditch 
was  choked  with  mangled  bodies  in  blue,  flung 
one  over  the  other  amid  smashed  gun-wheels, 
caissons,  knapsacks,  and  rifles ;  and  the  staff- 
officer  hesitated  for  an  instant  at  the  brink. 

"Jump  !  "  called  Cleymore,  "here  !  Get  down 
behind  this  rock  and  keep  your  nose  out  of  sight; 


In  the  Name  of  the  Most  High.     203 

those  Texas  gentlemen  waste  few  bullets;  are  you 
hit?" 

"No,"  said  the  little  staff-officer. 

"Bull  luck;  did  you  see  Randal's  men  ?  The 
shells  did  it— look  there." 

He  pointed  the  length  of  the  ditch.  The  staff- 
officer  turned  pale.  Everywhere  corpses, — mere 
heaps  of  blue  rags,  stained  yellow  by  dust  and 
black  with  stiff  blood,  everywhere  dented  can 
teens,  twisted  muskets,  unsavory  scattered  cloth 
ing,  worn  shoes,  and  shrunken  blue  caps.  A  big 
black  horse,  bloated  and  dusty  lay  with  both  hind 
legs  stark  in  the  air  ;  under  him  were  dead  men, 
mostly  Keenan's,  by  the  red  stripes  on  the  faded 
trousers. 

Cleymore  pulled  his  short  blond  moustache  and 
turned  to  the  staff- officer. 

' (  You  see  that  slaughter  pen, ' '  he  said ;  * ( tell 
Colonel  Worth." 

The  staff-officer  felt  for  his  cap,  remembered  it 
had  been  shot  off  his  head,  and  looked  gravely  at 
Cleymore. 

' '  I  have  four  guns  and  two  hundred  and  twenty 
odd  men,"  said  the  latter;  "if  they  bring  back 
their  batteries,  an  hour  or  two  will  see  us  all  in  the 
ditch  below  with  Randal;  if  they  don't  we  can 
hold  on  to  the  South  Fork  bridge  I  fancy.  Do 
you  know  why  they  withdrew  their  batteries  ?  ' ' 

"No, — unless  it  was  to  shell  Colonel  Worth's 
cavalry.  His  men  are  in  the  woods  behind  the 
railroad.  If  you  can  hold  the  bridge  until  night 


204     In  the  Name  of  the  Most  High. 

they  will  keep  the  line  open.  Colonel  Worth  is 
waiting.  I  must  go  back  now,  Captain. ' ' 

Cleymore  leaned  along  the  edge  of  the  protect 
ing  ledge  and  handed  his  field-glasses  to  the  boy. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  you  can  see  the  bend  in  the 
river.  There  are  three  pines  on  the  bank  above 
—see?" 

"Yes." 

' l  Take  the  foot-path  by  those  pines  until  you 
come  to  a  burnt  barn.  Follow  the  river  after  that 
and  if  the  iron  bridge  is  n't  blown  up  yet  you  can 
get  across;  if  it  is  blown  up  you  can't  join  Colonel 
Worth." 

"But— a— a  boat " 

"A  boat  in  that?" 

They  looked  at  the  foaming  torrent,  thundering 
among  the  rocks.  After  a  moment  the  staff-officer 
pointed  to  the  shot- torn  bridge  below  them. 

' '  Oh, ' '  said  Cleymore,  *  *  you  came  that  way, 
did  n't  you  ?  Well,  miracles  happen,  and  that 
was  one  of  them,  but  if  you  try  to  get  back  that 
way,  the  performance  won't  be  encored,  and  you 
can  bet  your  curly  head  on  that,  my  son." 

"It  's  the  shortest  way,"  said  the  little  staff- 
officer. 

"Yes,  the  shortest  way  to  Kingdom  come," 
said  Cleymore,  disgusted;  "if  you  're  not  shot, 
the  Texans  will  catch  you. ' ' 

They  were  crouching  on  the  hot  dried  grass, 
side  by  side.  The  sweat  poured  down  Cleymore' s 
forehead  washing  the  powder  grime  into  thick 


In  the  Name  of  the  Most  High.      205 

patches  over  his  young  face.  He  threw  his  black 
ened  jacket  open  at  the  throat,  rubbed  his  fore 
head  with  his  sleeve  and  said,  ' '  Whew  ! ' ' 

"It  's  the  shortest  way,"  repeated  the  other, 
rising  to  his  knees. 

"  You  can't  go,"  said  Cleymore,  sharply,  "  the 
bridge  is  mined  and  Murphy  may  blow  it  up  any 
moment. ' ' 

The  youth  handed  back  the  field-glass  with  a 
smile.  For  a  moment  their  eyes  met,  then  Cley 
more' s  flushed  face  turned  a  bright  crimson  and  he 
caught  his  breath,  murmuring  "  I  'm  blest  !  " 

' '  Captain  Cleymore, ' '  said  the  staff-officer 
coolly,  ' '  you  are  detaining  me  from  my  duty. 
Have  I  your  permission  to  leave  ?  ' ' 

They  eyed  each  other  steadily. 

' '  You  must  not  go, ' '  said  Cleymore  in  a  curious, 
husky  voice,  * '  let  me  send  a  man ' ' 

' '  Have  I  your  leave  ?  ' ' 

"Comeback,"  cried  Cleymore,  "  I  won't  give 
it  !  " — but  the  youngster  sprang  to  his  feet, 
touched  his  curly  head  in  quick  salute,  and  started 
on  a  run  toward  the  covered  bridge,  holding  his 
sabre  close  to  his  thigh. 

' '  Drop  !  ' '  shouted  Cleymore,  and  began  to 
swear  under  his  breath,  but  the  youngster  ran  on, 
and  to  Cleymore's  amazement,  the  rifles  of  the 
fierce  Texans  on  the  other  side  of  the  river  were 
silent. 

On  and  still  on  ran  the  boy,  until,  with  a  sigh 
of  astonishment  and  relief,  Cleymore  saw  him 


206     In  the  Name  of  the  Most  High. 

push  in  among  the  handful  of  blue-clad  engineers 
at  the  end  of  the  bridge;  but  he  went  no  further, 
for  they  stopped  him  with  levelled  bayonets,  shak 
ing  their  heads  and  gesticulating,  and  suddenly 
Cleymore  noticed  that  the  bridge  was  afire  at  the 
further  end. 

"  Murphy 's  fired  the  bridge!  "  he  called  out  to 
Kellogg  on  the  plateau  above. 

Kellogg' s  head  appeared  over  a  shattered  gun 
limber.  "  Then  Longstreet  's  coming,  you  bet  !  " 

"I  suppose  so,  can't  you  see  anything?  Call 
Douglas." 

The  Texas  rifles  cracked  again.  Kellogg  did 
not  answer.  "  Can't  you  see  any  movement  near 
the  woods  ?  "  demanded  Cleymore  from  his  rock. 
Then  he  looked  carefully  at  Kellogg' s  head,  ap 
pearing  to  rest  between  two  bits  of  sod,  and  he 
saw,  in  the  middle  of  the  forehead,  a  round  dark 
spot  from  which  a  darker  line  crept  slowly  down 
over  the  nose. 

After  a  second  or  two  he  turned  from  the  dead 
eyes  staring  fixedly  at  him,  and  looked  across  the 
river  where  the  rifles  were  spitting  death.  The 
round  white  blotches  of  smoke  hung  along  the 
river  bank  like  shreds  of  cotton  floating.  Then 
he  glanced  toward  the  bridge  again.  There  was 
a  commotion  there;  a  group  of  excited  soldiers 
around  a  slender  figure,  bareheaded,  gesticulat 
ing. 

"  What  's  that  hop  o'  my  thumb  up  to  now  ?  " 
he  muttered  excitedly,  and  raised  his  field-glass. 


In  the  Name  of  the  Most  High.     207 

"  By  Jingo !  Trying  to  cross  the  bridge,  and  it 's 
afire  !" 

For  a  moment  he  knelt,  his  eye  glued  to  the 
field-glasses,  then  with  an  angry  exclamation  he 
turned  toward  the  floating  rifle-smoke  along  the 
opposite  bank.  The  chances  were  that  he  'd  be 
hit,  and  he  knew  it,  but  he  only  muttered  pet 
tishly  ;  ' '  Young  fool, ' '  and  started,  stooping  low, 
toward  the  swaying  knot  of  men  at  the  bridge. 

The  chances  were  ten  to  one  that  he  'd  be  hit, 
and  lie  was,  but  he  only  straightened  up  and  ran 
on.  The  minie-balls  came  whining  about  his 
head,  the  blood  ran  down  into  his  boot,  and  filled 
it  so  that  he  slopped  as  he  ran.  And  after  all  he 
was  too  late,  for,  as  he  panted  up  to  the  bridge, 
far  down  the  covered  way  he  saw  the  youngster 
speeding  over  the  smoking  rafters. 

"  Stop  him  !"  he  gasped. 

A  soldier  raised  his  rifle,  but  Cleymore  jerked  it 
down. 

' '  Not  that  way, ' '  he  said,  leaning  back  on  his 
sword. 

Along  the  dry  timbered  tunnel  crept  the  boy, 
for  the  fire  was  all  about  him  now.  Once  he  fell 
but  rose  again. 

' '  Has  the  mine  been  fired — the  powder  trail  ?  ' ' 
asked  Cleymore,  in  a  dull  voice. 

A  soldier  nodded  and  opened  his  mouth  to 
speak,  but  a  deafening  roar  drowned  his  voice  and 
gave  Cleymore  his  answer. 

1 '  Is  that  all  ?  "  asked  Cleymore  again,  as  the 


2o8     In  the  Name  of  the  Most  High. 

smoke  rushed  skyward,  and  the  ground  trembled 
and  cracked  beneath  them. 

' '  One  more, ' '  said  a  sergeant  curtly,  as  Captain 
Murphy  hurried  up.  The  whole  further  section 
of  the  bridge  had  crumbled  into  the  torrent  below. 
The  smoke  swept  through  the  tunnel,  and  when 
it  lifted  Cleymore  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  figure 
dragging  itself  back  from  the  gulf  ahead.  The 
soldiers  saw  it  too. 

' '  He  would  go, ' '  said  one  of  them,  as  though 
speaking  to  himself. 

Cleymore  tore  off  his  jacket  and  held  it  before 
his  face. 

"  You  can't  do  it  !  "  cried  Murphy,  horrified. 

' '  L,et  go — I  must, ' '  said  Cleymore  quietly,  ' '  cut 
the  match,  if  you  can. ' ' 

* '  The  other  mines  are  on  fire  !  In  the  name 
of  God,  Cleymore  !  ' '  urged  the  engineer  officer, 
holding  him  back  by  both  shoulders. 

"  Damn  you,  Murphy,  let  me  go  !  "  cried  Cley 
more  fiercely  ;  "let  go,  I  say." 

"  I  will  not,  Cleymore  ;  we  can't  lose  you  for  a 
fool  of  a  boy ' ' 

' '  But  it 's  a  woman ! ' '  roared  Cleymore,  wrench 
ing  himself  free. 


II. 


AS  lie  ran  through  the  smoke-choked  bridge, 
bright  little  flames  shot  from  the  crack 
ling  timbers,  and  he  felt  the  hot  breath  of 
the  furnace  underneath.  And  all  the  time  he 
kept  repeating  as  he  ran,  "  I  'in  a  fool,  I  'm  a 
fool,  it  's  all  up  now  " ;  but  he  hurried  on,  shield 
ing  his  face  with  his  braided  jacket,  feeling  his 
way  through  the  flurries  of  smoke  and  sparks 
until  a  whirl  of  flame  blocked  his  way ;  and  on  the 
edge  of  the  burning  depths  he  found  what  he  was 
looking  for. 

She  was  very  slender  and  light,  in  her  ragged 
uniform,  and  he  lifted  her  and  wrapped  his  jacket 
about  her  head.  Then  he  started  back,  increas 
ing  his  speed  as  the  black  smoke  rolled  up  from 
the  planks  under  foot,  but  it  was  easier  than  he 
had  dared  dream  of,  for  she  revived,  and  when 
Murphy  loomed  up  in  the  gloom,  and  steadied 
them  with  an  arm,  he  laughed  aloud  from  sheer 
nervousness.  Then  a  terrific  explosion  threw 
him  on  his  face,  but  Murphy  helped  him  up, 
and  he  seized  his  burden  again  and  staggered 
toward  the  hill  where  Keenan's  guns  were  already 
x*  209 


2 1  o     In  the  Name  of  the  Most  High. 

thundering,  and  the  crack — crack — crackle  of  rifles 
echoed  and  re-echoed  from  rock  to  cliff. 

"  You  're  hit,"  said  Douglas,  as  he  entered  the 
entrenchment. 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Cleymore,  hastily  scan 
ning  the  rifle-pits,  "  keep  the  men  under  cover, 
Douglas — what  's  up  ?  Wait,  I  '11  be  there  in  a 
second.  Here,  Pillsbury,  take  this  wo — this  offi 
cer  to  my  burrow  and  stay  there  until  I  come ! ' ' 

Douglas,  lying  close  to  the  top  of  the  breast 
works,  glasses  levelled,  began  to  speak  in  a  mo 
notonous  voice  :  '  The  two  batteries  have  re 
turned  and  are  unlimbering  to  the  west  ;  they 
seem  to  have  cavalry  too  ;  a  heavy  column  is 
moving  parallel  to  the  railroad — infantry  and  am 
munition  convoy;  more  infantry  coming  through 
the  cemetery;  I  can  see  more  on  the  hill  beyond; 
the  batteries  have  unlimbered — look  out  ! ' ' 

* '  Down  ! ' '  shouted  Cleymore,  but  the  shells 
sailed  high  overhead  and  plunged  into  the  muddy 
torrent  of  the  South  Fork. 

"  Keenan,"  he  called,  "  do  you  want  volun 
teers  ?" 

"  Not  yet — damn  the  Texans  !  "  bawled  Kee 
nan  through  the  increasing  din. 

Douglas  began,  "  Cleymore,  they  are — "  and 
fell  over  stone  dead. 

Cleymore  heard  the  minie-balls'  thud!  thud  ! 
as  they  struck  the  dead  body,  half  flung  across 
the  breastwork,  and  Keenan,  maddened  by  the 
bullets  which  searched  his  dwindling  files,  bel- 


In  the  Name  of  the  Most  High.     2 1 1 

lowed  hoarsely,  as  one  by  one  his  guns  flashed 
and  roared,  ' '  Now  !  In  the  name  of  God,  lads, 
to  hell  with  them  !  ' ' 

lyike  red  devils  in  the  pit  the  cannoneers  worked 
at  their  guns,  looming  through  the  infernal 
smoke  pall  stripped  to  their  waists.  Keenan, 
soaked  with  sweat  and  black  from  eyes  to  ankle, 
raged  like  a  fiend  from  squad  to  squad  while  his 
guns  crashed  and  the  whole  hill  vomited  flame. 

Thicker  and  blacker  rolled  the  smoke  from  the 
battery  emplacement,  until  it  shrouded  the  hill. 
Then  out  of  the  darkness  reeled  Keenan  howl 
ing  for  volunteers  and  weeping  over  the  loss  of 
another  gun. 

1 '  Three  left  ?  ' '  motioned  Cleymore  faintly  with 
his  lips. 

"  Three  !  Number  four  dismounted  and  all 
killed ;  send  me  some  of  your  infantry  !  ' '  and  the 
artilleryman  plunged  into  the  blazing  furnace 
again.  Below  them  the  grass  and  abatis  caught 
fire  and  the  smarting  smoke  of  green  wood  almost 
blinded  Cleymore.  Murphy  and  his  engineers 
were  at  work  among  the  crackling  logs,  but  after 
a  while  the  dull  blows  of  their  axes  died  away 
and  Cleymore  knew  they  were  dead. 

"  More  men  for  the  guns  !"  roared  Keenan 
from  the  darkness,  and  a  dozen  Rhode  Islanders 
tumbled  out  of  their  burrows  and  groped  their 
way  into  the  battery.  In  another  moment  Kee 
nan  came  staggering  out  again,  gasping  like  a  fish 
and  waving  his  arms  blindly. 


212     In  the  Name  of  the  Most  High. 

11  They  've  got  another  gun,  Cleymore, — only 
two  now, — more  men  for  the  guns  !  " 

Cleymore,  half  fainting  from  the  loss  of  blood, 
motioned  to  his  men  for  volunteers;  and  they 
came,  cheering  for  old  New  York,  and  vanished, 
engulfed  in  the  battery  smoke. 

The  hill  was  swept  by  fierce  cyclones  of  lead; 
bullets  flew  in  streams,  whistling,  hurtling  among 
the  rocks,  rebounding  into  the  rifle-pits,  carrying 
death  to  those  below.  Great  shells  tore  through 
the  clouds,  bursting  and  shattering  the  cliff  over 
head.  A  whirlwind  of  flame  from  the  burning 
bridge  swept  over  the  hillside,  hiding  the  river 
and  the  heights  opposite,  and  the  burning  abatis 
belched  smoke  and  torrents  of  sparks.  Cleymore 
sat  down  near  the  burrow,  and  picked  the  bits  of 
cloth  from  the  long  tear  which  the  bullet  had 
made  in  his  flesh  above  the  knee.  The  last  of  the 
engineer  company  came  toiling  up  from  the  rail 
road  bridge,  and  the  lieutenant  nodded  to  his 
question,  ( '  Yes,  the  bridge  is  blown  out  of  the 
water.  Where  can  I  put  my  men  in,  Captain  ?  ' ' 

Cleymore  pointed  to  the  pits,  and  they  went 
into  them,  cheering  shrilly.  A  moment  later  a 
shell  fell  into  one  of  the  crowded  pits  and  ex 
ploded,  throwing  out  a  column  of  sand  and  bodies 
torn  limb  from  limb.  Only  one  gun  was  firing 
now  from  Keenan's  battery,  but  from  that  one 
gun  the  lightning  sped  continuously,  fed  by  a 
constantly  renewed  stream  of  volunteers.  Cley 
more,  watching  Keenan,  thought  that  he  had 


In  the  Name  of  the  Most  High.      2 1 3 

really  gone  mad.  Perhaps  lie  had,  and  perhaps 
that  is  why  Heaven  directed  a  bullet  to  his  brain, 
before  the  loss  of  his  last  gun  should  kill  him  with 
grief.  Then  a  shell  smashed  up  the  muzzle  of 
the  last  gun,  and  the  remnants  of  the  servants 
dragged  themselves  away  to  lie  panting  like 
hounds  on  the  scorched  earth,  or  die  inch  by  inch 
from  some  gaping  wound. 

"  The  jig  is  up,"  said  Cleymore  aloud  to  him 
self. 

For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  enemy's  guns 
rained  shells  into  the  extinct  crater — the  tomb  of 
Keenan  and  his  cannon.  Then,  understanding 
that  Keenan  had  been  silenced  forever,  their  fire 
died  out,  and  Cleymore  could  hear  bugles  blowing 
clearly  in  the  distance. 

He  staggered  to  his  feet  and  called  to  his  men, 
but  of  the  loth  New  York  Rifles,  only  thirty  came 
stumbling  from  the  pits.  Pillsbury  also  answered 
the  call,  sauntering  unconcernedly  from  the  bur 
row  whither  he  had  carried  Cleymore' s  charge. 

All  around  them  the  wounded  were  shrieking 
for  water,  and  Cleymore  aided  his  men  to  carry 
them  to  the  spring  which  flowed  sparkling  from 
the  rocks  above.  It  was  out  of  the  question  to 
remove  them, — it  was  useless  to  think  of  burying 
the  dead.  The  three  days'  struggle  for  the  hill 
had  ended,  and  now  all  the  living  would  have  to 
leave, — all  except  one. 

"Pillsbury,"  said  Cleymore,  "take  my  men, 
and  strike  for  the  turnpike  due  north.  I  can't 


214     In  the  Name  of  the  Most  High. 

walk — I  am  too  weak  yet,  but  you  have  time  to 
get  out.  March  !  ' ' 

The  men  refused,  and  Pillsbury  called  for  a 
litter  of  rifles,  but  a  volley  whistled  in  among 
them  and  they  reeled. 

"  Save  thet  there  flag!"  shouted  Pillsbury, 
"  I  've  got  the  guidon  !  " 

Cleymore  lay  on  the  ground  motionless,  and 
when  they  lifted  him  his  head  fell  back. 

"  Daid,"  said  Pillsbury,  soberly,  "  poor  cuss!  " 

A  rifleman  threw  his  jacket  over  Cleymore' s 
face,  and  started  running  down  the  hill  to  where 
the  colour-guard  was  closing  around  a  bundle  of 
flags,  black  and  almost  dropping  from  the  staffs. 

' '  Save  the  colours  ! ' '  they  cried,  and  staggered 
on  toward  the  north. 


III. 


IT  may  have  been  thirst,  it  may  have  been  the 
groans  of  the  wounded  that  roused  Cleymore. 
He  was  lying  close  by  the  rivulet  that  ran 
from  the  rock  spring,  and  he  plunged  hands  and 
head  into  it  and  soaked  his  fill. 

The  wound  on  his  leg  had  stiffened,  but  to  his 
surprise  he  found  it  neatly  dressed  and  bandaged. 
Had  aid  arrived  ? 

"  Hello  !"  he  called. 

The  deep  sigh  of  a  dying  man  was  his  only  an 
swer.  He  hardly  dared  to  look  around.  The  air 
was  stifling  with  the  scent  of  blood  and  powder 
and  filthy  clothing,  and  he  rose  painfully  to  his 
feet  and  tottered  into  the  cool  burrow  among  the 
rocks. 

His  blanket  and  flask  lay  there,  but  before  he 
raised  the  flask  to  his  lips  he  lifted  the  corner  of 
the  blanket  nervously.  Underneath  stood  a  small 
oblong  box,  into  which  was  screwed  an  electric 
button.  Two  insulated  wires  entered  the  ground 
directly  in  front  of  the  box,  which  was  marked  in 
black  letters,  "  Watson's  Excelsior  Soap." 

Cleymore  replaced  the  blanket,  swallowed  a 
215 


2 1 6     In  the  Name  of  the  Most  High. 

mouthful  of  whiskey  and  lay  down,  utterly  ex 
hausted.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  he 
awoke  from  the  pain  in  his  leg,  but  somebody  had 
bandaged  it  again  while  he  slept,  and  he  was  able 
to  move  out  into  the  intrenchments.  Most  of  the 
wounded  were  dead — the  rest  were  dying  in  si 
lence.  He  did  what  he  could  for  Cunningham 
who  joked  feebly  and  watched  Morris  with  quiet 
eyes.  Morris  died  first,  and  Cunningham,  hear 
ing  the  death-rattle  in  his  comrade's  throat,  mur 
mured  :  ' '  Phin  he  lived  he  bate  me,  but  oi  '11  give 
him  a  race  to  the  Saints  fur  his  money !  Is  Dick 
Morris  dead  now  ?  ' ' 

"  Dead,"  said  Cleymore. 

"  Thin,  good-bye,  Captain  dear,"  whispered 
Cunningham. 

At  first  Cleymore  thought  he  was  sleeping. 

The  evening  fell  over  the  hilltop,  and  the  last 
of  the  wounded  shivered  and  died  with  drawn  face 
upturned  to  the  driving  clouds.  Cleymore  cov 
ered  the  boy's  face — he  was  scarcely  sixteen — and 
sat  down  with  his  back  against  a  rock. 

The  wreck  of  Keenan's  battery  rose  before  him 
in  the  twilight,  stark  and  mute,  silhouetted  against 
the  western  horizon.  Lights  began  to  sparkle 
along  the  opposite  river  bank,  and  now,  from  the 
heights,  torches  swung  in  semi-circles  signalling 
victory  for  the  army  of  the  South,  death  and  dis 
aster  to  the  North.  Far  away  over  the  wooded 
hills  dull  sounds  came  floating  on  the  breeze,  the 
distant  rhythmic  cadence  of  volley  firing.  There 


In  the  Name  of  the  Most  High.      2 1 7 

were  fires  too,  faint  flares  of  light  on  trie  horizon 
where  Thomas  was  <(  standing  like  a  rock."  On 
a  nearer  slope  a  house  and  barn  were  burning, 
lighting  up  the  stumps  and  rocks  in  the  clearing, 
and  casting  strange  shadows  over  the  black  woods. 
In  the  gathering  twilight  someone  came  down  the 
cliffs  at  his  back,  treading  carefully  among  the 
shellsplit  fragments,  and  Cleymore  saw  it  wras  the 
little  staff-officer.  She  did  not  see  him  until  he 
called  her. 

' '  I  want  to  thank  you  for  dressing  that  scratch 
of  mine, ' '  he  said,  rising. 

' '  You  are  very  welcome, ' '  she  said,  "is  it 
better?" 

"Yes— and  you?" 

"  You  saved  my  life,"  she  said. 

' '  But  are  you  burnt — you  must  have  been ' ' 

"  No — only  stifled.  Are  the  wounded  alive  ?  I 
did  what  I  could. ' ' 

' '  They  are  dead, ' '  said  Cleymore.  She  un 
hooked  her  sabre,  and  sat  down  beside  him  look 
ing  off  over  the  valley. 

After  a  silence  he  said :  "  I  suppose  you  are  one 
of  our  spies — I  have  heard  of  the  women  spies, 
and  I  once  saw  Belle  Boyd.  How  did  you  hap 
pen  to  take  the  place  of  an  aide-de-camp  ?  ' ' 

"  Am  I  to  tell  all  my  secrets  to  an  infantry 
captain  ?  ' '  she  said,  with  a  trace  of  a  smile  in 
her  blue  eyes. 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  not,"  he  answered,  and  re 
lapsed  into  silence. 


2 1 8     In  the  Name  of  the  Most  High. 

Presently  she  drew  a  bit  of  bacon  and  hard-tack 
from  her  pouch  and  quietly  divided  it.  They 
both  drank  from  the  rivulet  after  the  meal  was 
finished.  She  brushed  the  water  from  her  lips 
with  a  sun-tanned  hand,  and  looking  straight  at 
Cleymore,  said  :  "  The  hill  below  the  abatis  is 
mined,  is  it  not  ?  ' ' 

"  Now,  really,"  said  Cleymore,  "  am  I  to  tell 
all  my  secrets  to  a  girl  spy  ?  ' '  She  stared  at  him 
for  a  moment,  and  then  smiled. 

"  I  know  it  already,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,"  said  Cleymore,  "  and  do  you  know 
where  the  wires  are  buttoned  ?  ' ' 

' '  Wires  ?  ' '  she  exclaimed. 

"  Of  course.  Be  thankful  that  poor  Murphy's 
mines  at  the  bridge  were  old-fashioned.  If  there 
had  been  wires  there,  you  would  not  be  sitting 
here." 

* '  And  you  have  stayed  to  fire  this  mine  ?  ' '  she 
said  at  length. 

"Yes." 

1 '  The  bridges  are  gone,  and  the  river  is  impass 
able.  It  will  be  days  before  Longstreet's  men  can 
cross. ' ' 

' '  I  know  it, ' '  said  Cleymore,  * '  but  when  they 
come,  I  '11  be  here — and  so  will  the  mine." 

The  spy  dropped  her  clasped  hands  into  her 
lap. 

"I  '11  blow  them  to  hell!"  said  Cleymore 
savagely,  glaring  at  the  silent  dead  around  him. 
Then  he  begged  her  pardon  for  forgetting  himself, 


In  the  Name  of  the  Most  High.     2 1 9 

and  leaned  against  the  rock  to  adjust  his  eye 
glasses. 

"  That  would  be  useless  butchery,"  said  the 
girl,  earnestly. 

"  That  will  do,"  said  Cleymore,  in  a  quiet 
voice. 

The  girl  shrank  away  as  though  she  had  been 
struck.  Cleymore  noticed  it,  and  said:  "  If  you 
are  a  Government  spy,  you  are  subject  to  army 
regulations.  I  would  rather  treat  you  as  a 
woman,  but  I  cannot  while  you  wear  that  uniform 
or  hold  a  commission.  How,  in  Heaven's  name, 
did  you  come  to  enter  the  service  ?  You  can't  be 
eighteen — you  are  of  gentle  breeding  ?  ' ' 

' '  I  am  a  spy  !  ' '  she  exclaimed,  ' '  and  I  thank 
God,  and  I  hate  the  enemies  of  my  country  !  ' ' 

' '  Amen, ' '  said  Cleymore,  wondering  at  her 
fierce  outburst. 

I  (  Do  you  not  hate  the   Confederates  ?  ' '    she 
demanded. 

' '  No, ' '  he  answered,  gravely,  ' '  but  I  hate  the 
rebellion." 

' '  But  you  must  hate  your  enemies  ;  I  do. " 

II  I  don't;    it  makes  me  sick  to  see  them  go 
down — splendid  fellows, — Americans,  and  to  think 
that   such  troops  might  have  stood  shoulder  to 
shoulder  with   our   own,    under   the  same   flag, 
against  the  world  ! — aye,  against  ten  worlds  !     I 
hate  the  rebels  ?     By  Heaven,    no  !     Think  of 
Thomas  and  Grant  and  I^ee  and  Jackson  leading 
a  united  army  against  those  thieving  French  in 


22O     In  the  Name  of  the  Most  High. 

Mexico  !  Think  of  Sherman  and  Sheridan  and 
Johnston  and  Stuart  facing  the  fat-brained  treach 
ery  of  England  !  I  tell  you  I  respect  the  rebels, 
lyook  at  that  heap  of  dead  !  I^ook  at  those 
smashed  guns  !  I^ook  at  me — the  defeated  com 
mander,  crouching  in  this  slaughter  pen,  waiting 
to  spring  a  mine — and  die.  The  men  who  reduced 
me  to  this  have  my  respect  as  soldiers  and  my 
love  and  admiration  as  Americans,  but  if  I  could 
blow  them  all  to  the  four  winds  by  one  touch  of 
an  electric  button,  I  'd  do  it,  and  bless  the 
chance  !  "  The  girl  trembled  at  his  fervour. 

11  That  is  a  strange  creed,"  she  murmured. 

"  Creed  ?  The  Union,  in  the  Name  of  God- 
that  's  my  creed  !  " 


IV. 


THE  next  day  it  rained.  The  rebel  batteries 
flung  a  dozen  shells  among  Keenan's 
ruined  guns,  but,  receiving  no  answer, 
ceased  firing.  Cleymore  was  stiff  and  ill,  but  he 
managed  to  reach  the  intrenchment  and  rest  his 
field-glasses  against  a  rock.  The  four  batteries 
were  in  motion,  filing  along  the  river  bank  toward 
the  cemetery  where  a  flag  drooped  above  a  mar 
quee,  the  headquarters  of  some  general.  The 
Texan  Riflemen  were  moving  about  the  scrub- 
oak,  showing  themselves  fearlessly,  and  a  bat 
talion  of  engineers  was  hard  at  work  on  the  smoul 
dering  piers  of  the  bridge.  Dark  masses  of  troops 
appeared  on  the  distant  hillsides  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach,  and  along  the  railroad  track  cavalry 
were  riding  through  the  rain. 

All  day  long  Cleymore  watched  the  rebel  army, 
and  at  night  he  shared  his  hard-tack  and  bacon 
with  the  girl.  They  spoke  very  little  to  each 
other,  but  when  Cleymore  was  looking  at  the 
rebels  her  eyes  never  left  him.  Once,  when  he 
crept  into  his  cave  to  swallow  a  drop  of  brandy, 
she  hurried  from  rifle-pit  to  rifle-pit,  evidently 

221 


222     In  the  Name  of  the  Most  High. 

searching  for  something,  but  when  again  he  reap 
peared  she  was  seated  listlessly  against  the  rocky 
wall,  her  blond  head  buried  in  her  hands.  And 
that  night  too,  when  he  was  tossing  in  feverish 
slumber,  she  passed  like  a  shadow  through  the 
intrenchment,  over  rocks,  down  among  the  dead 
in  the  hollows,  her  lantern  shining  on  distorted 
faces  and  clenched  hands. 

The  next  day  the  rain  still  fell;  the  engineers 
were  steadily  at  work  on  the  ruined  bridge,  but 
the  river  had  swollen  enormously,  and  Cleymore 
could  not  see  that  they  had  progressed.  He  went 
back  to  his  cave  and  dropped  on  the  blanket,  the 
box  marked  ''Watson's  Excelsior  Soap"  at  his 
side.  The  girl  brought  him  a  bit  of  hard- tack  and 
a  cup  of  water.  It  was  the  last  crumb  left  in  the 
camp,  except  three  biscuits  which  she  had  in  her 
own  pockets.  She  did  not  tell  him  so. 

Toward  midnight  he  fell  asleep,  and  when  she 
saw  that  he  slept,  she  bent  over  him  and  looked 
into  his  face,  lighting  a  match.  Then  she  softly 
raised  the  blanket  and  saw  his  arm  encircling  a 
box  marked  "Watson's  Excelsior  Soap."  As 
she  stooped  to  touch  the  wires  he  stirred  in  his 
sleep  and  smiled,  and  she  shrank  away,  covering 
her  eyes  with  her  hands.  The  next  day  she 
brought  Cleymore  his  biscuit  and  cup  of  water,  for 
his  strength  was  ebbing,  and  he  could  scarcely 
crawl  to  the  breastworks.  She  ate  nothing  her 
self.  The  engineers  were  progressing  a  little,  the 
sun  shone  on  the  wasted  hills,  and  the  music  of  a 


In  the  Name  of  the  Most  High.      223 

Confederate  band  came  in  gusts  across  the  river 
from  the  cemetery. 

'  They  are  playing  '  Dixie, '  ' '  said  the  girl  ; 
but  Cleymore  only  sighed  and  pulled  the  dirty 
blanket  over  his  face.  The  next  day  she  brought 
him  his  biscuit,  there  was  but  one  left  now,  and 
he,  not  knowing,  asked  for  another,  and  she  gave 
him  the  last. 

About  noon  he  called  to  her,  and  she  helped 
him  to  the  breastworks  and  held  his  field-glasses. 
The  engineers  had  made  alarming  progress,  for 
the  river  was  falling  rapidly. 

"  They  '11  be  over  to-morrow,"  he  said. 

When  he  was  lying  in  his  blanket  once  more, 
he  beckoned  her  to  come  close  beside  him. 

"  Are  you  ill?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head. 

'  You  are  so  white  and  frail — I  thought  you 
might  be  ill." 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said. 

' '  Have  you  plenty  to  eat  ?  ' ' 

"Plenty." 

' '  When  are  you  going  ?  ' ' 

"  Going  ?  "  she  faltered. 

' '  You  must  go,  of  course, ' '  he  said,  queru 
lously,  *  *  they  will  be  over  the  river  to-mor 
row.  ' ' 

"  And  you  ?  "  said  the  girl. 

"It  's  my  business  to  stay  here." 

"  And— fire  the  mine  ?  " 

' '  And  fire  the  mine, ' '  he  repeated. 


224     In  the  Name  of  the  Most  High. 

"What  is  the  use?  They  will  enter  all  the 
same. ' ' 

' '  Not  all  of  them, ' '  said  Cleymore,  grimly. 

* '  No — not  all  of  them — a  hundred  half-starved 
young  fellows  will  be  mangled — a  hundred  moth 
ers  will  be  childless — but  what  matter,  Captain 
Cleymore?" 

' '  What  matter, ' '  he  repeated, — ' '  my  orders  are 
to  defend  this  hill  until  hell  freezes  over,  and  I  am 
going  to  do  it. ' '  Then,  again,  he  wearily  asked 
pardon  for  his  words. 

Toward  evening  she  saw  he  was  sleeping ;  his 
eye-glasses  had  fallen  beside  him  on  the  blanket. 
Almost  timidly  she  picked  them  up,  held  them  a 
moment,  then  bent  her  head  and  touched  them 
with  her  lips. 

The  morning  broke  in  a  burst  of  splendid  sun 
light.  Over  the  river  the  rebel  bands  were  play 
ing  when  Cleymore' s  hot  eyes  unclosed,  but  he 
could  not  rise  from  his  blanket. 

The  girl  brought  him  a  cup  of  water  and  held  it 
v/hile  he  drank. 

"  There  are  no  more  biscuits,"  she  said. 

' '  I  shall  not  need  them, ' '  he  murmured,  ' '  what 
are  the  rebels  doing  ?  ' ' 

"  They  are  massing  to  cross.  The  bridge  is 
almost  ready." 

"  And  I  'm  ready,"  he  said,  "  good-bye." 

The  girl  knelt  beside  him  and  took  both  of  his 
hands  in  hers.  ' '  I  am  not  going, ' '  she  said. 

"  I  order  you,"  he  muttered. 


In  the  Name  of  the  Most  High.      225 

"  I  refuse,"  she  answered  gently. 

A  hectic  flush  touched  the  hollows  under  his 
eyes  and  he  raised  his  head.  "  I  order  you  to 
leave  these  works, ' '  he  said  angrily. 

' '  And  I  refuse, ' '  she  repeated  gently. 

A  burst  of  music  from  the  river  bank  came  up 
to  them  as  their  eyes  met  in  mute  conflict.  Cley- 
more's  hand  instinctively  felt  for  the  button  and 
the  wires,  then  he  gave  a  great  cry  and  sat  up 
among  his  rags,  and  the  girl  rose  slowly  to  her 
feet  beside  him. 

' '  Traitor !  "  he  gasped,  and  pointed  at  her  with 
shaking  hands. 

She  turned  perfectly  white  for  a  moment,  then 
a  wan  smile  touched  her  lips,  and  she  quietly  drew 
a  revolver  from  her  jacket. 

' '  I  am  not  a  traitor, ' '  she  said,  ' '  I  am  a  Con 
federate  spy,  and  I  cut  those  wires  last  night. 
You  are  my  prisoner,  Captain  Cleymore." 

The  silence  was  broken  by  the  noise  from  the 
bands,  now  massing  about  the  further  end  of  the 
completed  bridge.  Cleymore  bent  silently  over 
the  ruined  wires,  touched  the  button,  then,  turn 
ing  savagely,  whipped  his  revolver  to  his  head 
and  pulled  the  trigger.  The  hammer  struck  an 
empty  cylinder,  and  he  flung  it  from  him  with  a 
sob. 

In  an  instant  the  girl  was  on  her  knees  beside 
him,  raised  him  in  her  arms,  holding  his  head  on 
her  shoulder. 

"  Is  it  so  hard  to  surrender  to  a  woman  ?  ' '  she 
15 


226     In  the  Name  of  the  Most  High. 

asked,  * '  see,  I  give  you  my  revolver — here — now 
shoot  me  down  at  your  feet  !  I  cut  those  wires  ! 
Shoot  fearlessly — Ah,  do  you  think  I  care  for  my 
life?" 

Cleymore  raised  his  head  a  little. 

' '  I  surrender, ' '  he  sighed,  and  fainted. 

Then  there  came  a  great  sound  of  cheering  from 
below,  the  drums  rattled,  and  the  music  of  the 
bugles  swelled  nearer  and  nearer,  until  a  crash  of 
eager  feet  sounded  among  the  branches  of  the 
abatis  and  a  figure  clad  in  grey  leaped  upon  the 
breastworks  and  drove  the  steel  point  of  a  stand 
ard  into  the  gravel. 

' '  In  the  name  of  God  !  "  he  shouted  in  a  voice 
choked  with  emotion. 

' '  L,et  him  pray, ' '  muttered  the  dusty  veterans 
of  I<ongstreet's  infantry  as  they  wheeled  into  the 
parallels,  "  he  's  one  of  Jackson's  men." 

And  all  these  things  were  done  in  the  Name  of 
the  Most  High. 


THE  BOY'S  SISTER. 


"Le  plus  grand  tort  de  la  plupart  des  maris  envers 
leurs  femmes,  c'est  de  les  avoir  £pous£es." 


THE  BOY'S  SISTER. 


"  Je  He  me  sens  jamais  plus  seul  que  lorsque  je  livre 
mon  coeur  &  quelque  ami." 

MAUPASSANT. 


I. 


GARLAND'S  profession  took  him  to  Ten  Pin 
Corners.  His  profession  was  to  collect 
butterflies  for  the  Natural  History  Mu 
seum  of  New  York.  ' '  Uncle  Billy, ' '  who  kept  the 
Constitution  Hotel  at  Ten  Pin  Corners,  thought 
"  bug  huntin'  "  was  a  "  dampoor  bizness,  even 
fur  a  dood, ' ' — and  perhaps  it  was — but  that  is  none 
of  your  business  or  mine.  Garland  lived  at  the 
Constitution  Hotel.  The  hotel  did  small  honour  to 
its  name,  in  fact  it  would  have  ruined  any  other 
constitution.  It  was  ruining  Garland's  by  de 
grees,  but  a  man  of  twenty-five  does  n't  notice 
such  things.  So  Garland  swallowed  his  saleratus 
biscuits  and  bolted  pork  and  beans,  and  was  very 
glad  that  he  was  alive. 

He  had  met  the  male  population  of  Ten  Pin 
Corners  over  the  bar  at  the  Constitution  Hotel, — 
229 


230  The  Boy  s  Sister. 

it  being  a  temperance  state — and  there  he  had 
listened  to  their  views  on  all  that  makes  life  worth 
living. 

He  tried  to  love  his  fellow-countrymen.  When 
Orrin  Hayes  spat  upon  the  stove  and  denounced 
woman's  suffrage — when  Cy  Pettingil,  whose  wife 
was  obliged  to  sign  his  name  for  him,  agreed  pro 
fanely — when  the  Hon.  Hanford  Perkins,  A.  P. 
A.,  demonstrated  the  wickedness  of  Catholicism, 
and  proffered  vague  menaces  against  Rome,  Gar 
land  conscientiously  repressed  a  shudder. 

"They  are  my  countrymen,  God  bless 'em," 
he  thought,  smiling  upon  the  free-born. 

Uncle  Billy's  felonious  traffic  in  the  "j'yfull 
juice,"  did  not  prevent  his  attendance  at  town 
meeting,  nor  his  enthusiastic  voice  against  local 
option. 

"I  ain't  no  dum  fool,"  he  observed  to  Gar 
land,  "  let  the  wimmen  hev  their  way." 

"But  don't  you  think,"  suggested  Garland, 
' '  that  a  liberal  law  would  be  better  ?  '  * 

"  Naw,"  replied  Uncle  Billy. 

"  But  don't  you  think  even  a  poor  law  should 
be  observed  until  wise  legislation  can  find  a  rem 
edy  ?" 

* '  Naw, ' '  said  Uncle  Billy,  and  closed  the  sub- 
ject. 

Sometimes  Uncle  Billy  would  come  out  on  the 
verandah  where  Garland  was  sitting  in  the  sun, 
fussing  over  some  captured  caterpillar.  His  in 
variable  salute  was,  ' '  More  bugs  ?  Gosh  ! ' ' 


The  Boy  s  Sister.  231 

Once  he  brought  Garland  a  cockroach,  and  sug 
gested  the  bar-room  as  a  new  and  interesting  col 
lecting  ground,  but  Garland  explained  that  his 
business  did  not  include  such  augean  projects, 
and  the  thrifty  old  man  was  baffled. 

"  What 's  them  bugs  good  fur  ?  "  he  demanded 
at  length.  Garland  explained,  but  Uncle  Billy 
never  got  over  the  impression  that  Garland's  real 
business  was  the  advertising  of  Persian  Powder. 
Most  of  the  prominent  citizens  of  Ten  Pin  Corners 
came  to  Garland  to  engage  his  services  as  potato- 
beetle  exterminator,  measuring-worm  destroyer, 
and  general  annihilator  of  mosquitos,  and  to  each 
iii  turn  he  carefully  explained  what  his  profession 
was. 

They  were  skeptical — sometimes  sarcastic.  One 
thing,  however,  puzzled  them ;  he  had  never  been 
known  to  try  to  sell  anybody  Persian  Powder,  for, 
possessed  with  the  idea  that  he  was  some  new 
species  of  drummer,  they  found  this  difficult  to 
reconcile  with  their  suspicions. 

"Bin  a-buggin',  haint  ye?"  was  the  usual 
salute  from  the  free-born  whom  he  met  in  the 
fields;  and  when  Garland  smiled  and  nodded,  the 
free-born  would  expectorate  and  chuckle,  ' '  Oh, 
yew  air  slick,  Mister  Garland,  yew  're  more  'n  a 
Yankee  than  I  be. " 

Ten  Pin  Corners  was  built  along  both  sides  of 
the  road;  the  Constitution  Hotel  stood  at  one 
extremity  of  the  main  street,  the  Post  Office  at 
the  other.  Garland  once  asked  why  the  place 


232  The  Boys  Sister. 

was  called  Ten  Pin  Corners,  and  Uncle  Billy  told 
him  a  lie  about  its  having  been  named  from  his, 
Uncle  Billy's,  palatial  ten  pin  alley. 

"  Then  why  not  Ten  Pin  Alley  ?  "  asked  Gar 
land. 

"  Cuz  it  ain't  no  alley,"  sniffed  Uncle  Billy. 

' '  But, ' '  persisted  Garland,  ' '  why  Corners  ?  ' ' 

' '  Becuz  there  haint  no  corners, ' '  said  Uncle 
Billy  evasively,  and  retired  to  his  bar,  thirsty  and 
irritated.  ' ( Asks  enough  damfool  que-estions  t' 
set  a  man  crazy, ' '  he  confided  to  the  Hon.  Han- 
ford  Perkins  ;  ' '  I '  ve  hed  drummers  an'  drummers 
at  the  Constitooshun,  but  I  h'aint  seen  nothin' 
tew  beat  him. ' ' 

The  Hon.  Hanford  Perkins  looked  at  Uncle 
Billy  and  spat  gravely  upon  the  stove,  and  Uncle 
Billy  spat  also,  to  put  himself  on  an  equality  with 
the  Hon.  Hanford  Perkins. 

Concerning  the  mendacity  of  Uncle  Billy  there 
could  be  no  question.  Ten  Pin  Corners  had  been 
originally  Ten  Pines  Corners.  Half  a  mile  from 
the  terminus  of  the  main  street  stood  a  low  stone 
house.  It  was  included  in  the  paternal  govern 
ment  of  Ten  Pin  Corners,  and  it  was  from  this 
house,  surrounded  by  ten  gigantic  pines,  and 
from  the  four  cross-roads  behind  it,  now  long 
disused  and  overgrown  with  grass  and  fire  weed, 
that  the  village  name  degenerated  from  Ten  Pines 
to  Ten  Pin. 

Thither  Garland  was  wont  to  go  in  the  even 
ings,  for  the  pines  were  the  trysting  places  of 


The  Boys  Sister.  233 

moths — grey  moths  with  pink  and  black  under 
wings,  brown  moths  with  gaudy  orange  under 
wings,  rusty  red  moths  flecked  with  silver,  nan 
keen  yellow  moths,  the  product  of  the  measuring- 
worm,  big  fluffy  moths,  little  busy  moths,  and 
moths  that  you  and  I  know  nothing  about.  The 
sap  from  the  pines  attracted  some  of  these  crea 
tures,  the  lily  garden  in  front  of  the  stone  house 
attracted  others,  and  the  whole  combination 
attracted  Garland.  Also  there  lived  in  the  stone 
house  a  boy's  sister. 

One  afternoon  when  Uncle  Billy's  continued 
expectoration  and  Cy  Pettingil's  profanity  had 
driven  Garland  from  the  hotel,  he  wandered  down 
into  a  fragrant  meadow,  butterfly  net  in  one  hand, 
trout  rod  in  the  other,  and  pockets  stuffed  with 
cyanide  jar,  fly-book,  sandwiches,  and  Wilson 
on  Hybrids. 

The  stream  was  narrow  and  deep,  for  the  most 
part  flowing  silently  between  level  banks  fragrant 
with  mint  and  scented  grass;  but  here  and  there 
a  small  moss-grown  dam  choked  the  current  into 
a  deeper  pool  below,  into  which  poured  musical 
waterfalls. 

There  were  trout  there,  yellow,  speckled,  and 
greedy,  but  devious  in  their  ways,  and  uncertain 
as  April  mornings.  There  were  also  frogs  there, 
solemn  green  ones  that  snapped  at  the  artificial 
flies  and  came  out  of  the  water  with  slim  limbs 
outstretched  and  belly  glistening. 

"  It  's  like  pulling  up  some  nude  dwarf,  when 


234  The  Boys  Sister. 

they  grab  the  fly, ' '  wrote  Garland  to  his  chief  in 
New  York,  ' '  really  they  look  so  naked  and  inde 
cent."  Otherwise  Garland  was  fond  of  frogs; 
he  often  sat  for  hours  watching  them  half  afloat 
along  the  bank  or  squatting  majestically  upon 
some  mossy  throne. 

That  afternoon  he  had  put  on  a  scarlet  ibis 
fly,  and  the  frogs  plunged  and  lunged  after  it, 
flopping  into  the  pools  and  frightening  the  lurk 
ing  trout  until  Garland  was  obliged  to  substitute 
a  yellow  fly  in  self  defence.  But  the  trout  were 
coy.  One  great  fellow  leaped  for  the  fly,  missed 
it,  leaped  again  to  see  what  was  wrong,  and  find 
ing  out,  fled  into  the  depths,  waving  his  square 
tail  derisively.  Garland  walked  slowly  down 
the  brook,  casting  ahead  into  the  stream,  some 
times  catching  his  fly  in  the  rank  grass,  some 
times  deftly  defeating  the  larcenous  manoeuvres 
of  some  fat  frog,  and  now  and  then  landing  a 
plump  orange-bellied  trout  among  the  perfumed 
mint,  where  it  flopped  until  a  merciful  tap  on  the 
nose  sent  its  vital  spark  into  Nirvana  and  its  crim 
son  flecked  body  into  Garland's  moss-lined  creel. 

Once  or  twice  he  dropped  his  rod  in  the  grass  to 
net  some  conceited  butterfly  that  flaunted  its 
charms  before  the  serious-minded  clover  bees,  but 
he  seldom  found  anything  worth  keeping,  and  the 
butterfly  was  left  to  pursue  its  giddy  interrupted 
flight. 

As  he  passed,  walking  lightly  on  the  flowering 
turf,  the  big  black  crickets  sang  to  him,  the  katy- 


The  Boys  Sister.  235 

dids  scraped  for  him,  and  the  grasshoppers,  big 
and  little,  brown,  green,  and  yellow,  hopped  out 
of  the  verdure  before  him,  a  tiny  escort  of  out 
riders. 

It  was  nearly  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when 
he  came  to  the  last  pool,  before  the  meadow  brook 
flows  silently  into  the  woods  where  slim  black 
trout  lurk  under  submerged  rocks  and  mosquitos 
swoop  thankfully  upon  the  wanderer. 

On  the  bank  of  the  pool  sat  a  beautiful  boy 
watching  a  cork  floating  with  the  current. 

' '  Hello, ' '  said  Garland,  ' '  you  ought  to  be  in 
school,  Tip." 

The  boy  looked  at  Garland  through  gilded  tan 
gled  curls.  "Can't  you  see  I  'm  fishin' ?  "  he 
said  in  a  whisper. 

' '  I  see, ' '  said  Garland,  ' '  but  you  know  your 
sister  would  n't  allow  it.  Why  did  you  stay  away 
from  school,  Tip?  " 

The  angelic  eyes  were  lowered  a  moment,  then 
the  boy  carefully  raised  his  pole,  and,  seeing  the 
bait  intact,  dropped  it  into  the  water  again. 

"  Bill  Timerson  biffed  me,"  said  the  child. 

' '  If  Willy  Timerson  struck  you,  you  should 
not  stay  away  from  school, ' '  he  said ;  ' '  did  you — 
er — hit  him  back  ?  ' ' 

"Did  I?" 

' '  Did  you  ?  ' '  repeated  Garland,  repressing  a 
smile. 

' '  Heu  !  Why,  Mister  Garland,  I  slammed 
that  d — n  mug  of  his ' ' 


236  The  Boys  Sister. 

"Tip  !"  said  Garland. 

The  boy  hung  his  head  and  looked  at  the  cork. 
Garland  sat  down  beside  him  and  lighted  his  pipe. 

After  a  moment  he  said  :  ' '  Tip,  I  thought  you 
promised  me  not  to  swear. ' ' 

The  boy  was  silent. 

"  Did  you  ?  "  said  Garland. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  boy,  sullenly. 

"  Well  ?"  persisted  Garland. 

"Hied,"  said  the  boy. 

"You  forgot,"  said  Garland,  quietly,  "you 
don't  lie,  Tip." 

The  boy  looked  at  him  shyly,  then  turned  to 
his  cork  again. 

"  Tip,"  said  Garland,  "  what  do  you  think  of 
these  ?  "  he  opened  his  creel  and  Tip  looked  in. 

"  Hell  !  "  said  the  child  softly. 

"What  !  "  interrupted  Garland. 

"There  !"  said  Tip  calmly,  "I  lied  again; 
lam  me  one  in  the  snoot,  Mister  Garland. ' ' 

Garland  touched  the  boy  lightly  on  the  fore 
head.  "  You  will  try,"  he  said,  trying  to  conceal 
the  despair  in  his  voice. 

"Yes,"  cried  the  child  fervently,  "  I  will,  Mr. 
Garland,  so  help  me — I  mean,  cross  my  heart  !  " 
After  a  moment  he  added,  "  I — I  brought  you  a 
green  worm — here  it  is ' ' 

"  Hello  !  A  Smerinthus,  eh  ?  Much  obliged, 
Tip  ;  where  did  you  get  it  ?  " 

"Sister  found  it  on  the  piazza, — she  said  mebbe 
you  'd  want  it,"  replied  the  child  lifting  his  line 


The  Boys  Sister.  237 

again  ;  ' '  say,  Mister  Garland,  Squire  Perkins 
says  you  're  loony." 

"What,"  laughed  Garland. 

( '  Solemn, ' '  continued  the  child,  ' ' he  says  you 
was  onct  a  book  agent  or  a  drummer,  but  you  're 
loony  now  and  can't  work." 

"The  Hon.  Hanford  Perkins,  Tip?"  asked 
Garland,  laughing  frankly. 

"  Yep,  ole  Perkins  hisself." 

' '  To  whom  did  he  eulogize  me,  Tip  ?  '  * 

"What,  sir?" 

"  To  whom  did  he  say  this  ?  " 

"  To  sister — an'  Celia  turned  her  back  on  him; 
I  seen  it.  Are  you  loony  ?  ' ' 

Garland  was  laughing  but  managed  to  say,  no. 

"That  's  what  I  said,"  said  Tip,  scowling  at 
the  water,  "and  I  said  you  'd  kick  the  hel — 
you  'd  kick  the  stuffins  outen  him  if  he  said  it 
much  more.  Will  you,  Mr.  Garland  ?  " 

"I — I  don't  know,"  said  Garland,  trying  to 
control  his  mirth,  "  you  must  n't  say  that  sort  of 
thing,  you  know,  Tip." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Tip,  resignedly,  "  I  hove  'n 
apple  through  his  hat  though, — last  night." 

Then  Garland  explained  to  Tip  all  about  the 
deference  due  to  age,  but  so  pleasantly  that  the 
child  listened  to  every  word. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  "  I  '11  let  the  ole  man  be, 
— I  was  plannin'  to  bust  a  window,"  he  con 
tinued,  with  a  trace  of  regret,  "but  I  won't  !  " 
he  cried  in  a  climax  of  pious  resignation. 


238  The  Boys  Sister. 

Garland  watched  a  distant  butterfly  critically 
for  a  moment,  then  picked  up  his  rod  and  creel 
and  shook  the  ashes  from  his  pipe. 

"  Goin'  to  see  Cis  ?  "  inquired  Tip. 

' '  Hem  !  Hum  !  I — er — may  pass  by  that 
way,"  replied  Garland. 

' '  You  won't  tell  her  that  I  smashed  Bill  Timer- 
son?" 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Garland,  "that's  for 
you  to  tell  her." 

"  I  won't,"  said  the  child  doggedly. 

' '  Very  well, ' '  said  Garland,  walking  away. 

Tip  watched  him,  but  he  did  not  turn,  and  the 
child's  face  became  troubled. 

"  I  will  tell,  Mr.  Garland  !  "  he  called  across 
the  meadow. 

"All  right,  Tip,"  answered  Garland,  cheerily. 


II. 


BEFORE  Garland  came  In  sight  of  the  low 
stone  house  he  caught  the  fragrance  of  the 
lilies.  The  sun  glittered  low  on  the  hori 
zon,  long  luminous  shadows  stretched  over 
meadow  and  pasture,  and  a  thin  blue  haze  floated 
high  among  the  feathery  tops  of  the  pines  about 
the  house.  A  white  nanny-goat  of  tender  age, 
tethered  on  the  velvet  turf,  cried  ' '  me — h  ! 
me — h  !  ' '  watching  him  with  soft  silly  eyes. 
Except  for  the  kid,  and  a  Maltese  cat  asleep  on 
the  porch,  there  was  no  sign  of  life  about  the 
house.  Garland  turned  and  looked  out  over  the 
pastures.  A  spot  of  greyish-pink  was  moving 
down  there.  He  watched  it  for  a  moment,  quietly 
refilling  his  pipe,  then  dropped  his  rod  and  net 
upon  the  turf,  and  threw  himself  on  the  ground 
beside  them.  From  time  to  time  he  raised  his 
eyes  from  the  pages  of  Wilson  on  Hybrids  to  note 
the  progress  of  the  pink  spot  in  the  distant  pasture. 
Wilson  was  most  interesting  on  hybrids.  What 
Wilson  had  to  say  was  this  :  ' '  There  can  be  no 
doubt  that  hybrid  forms  of  these  two  splendid 
butterflies,  Nymphalis  Arthemis  and  Nyrnphalis 
239 


240  The  Boys  Sister. 

Ephestion,  exist  in  the  localities  frequented  by 
these  species.  In  the  little  village  of  Ten  Pin 
Corners,  Professor  Wormly  discovered  an  un 
known  hybrid,  which,  unfortunately,  he  was  un 
able  to  capture  or  describe." 

This  was  what  Wilson  had  to  say  on  hybrids. 

This  was  what  Garland  thought:  "I'd  give 
fifty  dollars  to  capture  one  of  these  hybrids  ; — I 
wonder  what  Celia  is  doing  in  the  pasture  ?  It 
may  not  have  been  a  hybrid  ;  it  may  only  have 
been  a  variety.  Celia  is  milking  the  Alderney, 
that  's  what  she  's  doing.  Still  Wormly  ought 
to  know  what  he  's  about.  Celia  has  finished 
milking  ;  now  it  's  the  Jersey's  turn.  I  should 
like  to  see  a  hybrid  of  Arthemis  and — hello  ! 
Celia  has  finished,  I  fancy."  Then  he  laid  down 
his  book  and  carefully  retied  his  necktie. 

When  Celia  arrived  and  placed  her  milk  pail  on 
the  porch,  Garland  jumped  to  his  feet  with  hypo 
critical  surprise. 

' '  You  are  milking  early, ' '  he  said,  ' '  did  you 
just  come  from  the  pasture  ?  " 

The  girl  looked  at  her  pail  and  nodded.  The 
sunlight  gilded  her  arms,  bare  to  the  shoulder, 
and  glittered  in  a  fierce  halo  around  her  burnished 
hair.  She  had  her  brother' s  soft  blue  eyes,  fringed 
with  dark  lashes,  but  the  beauty  of  her  mouth 
was  indescribable.  Garland,  as  usual,  offered  to 
take  the  milk  pail,  and  she,  as  usual,  firmly 
declined. 

* '  You  never  let  me, ' '  he  said,    ' '  I  wanted  to 


The  Boys  Sister.  241 

bring  it  up  from  the  pasture,  but  I  knew  what 
you  'd  say." 

' c  Then  you  saw  me  in  the  pasture, ' '  she 
asked. 

* '  Br — er — yes, ' '  he  admitted. 

' '  I  saw  you  too, ' '  she  said,  and  sat  down  in  the 
red  sunlight  under  the  pines. 

Garland  sat  down  also,  and  made  an  idle  pass 
at  a  white  butterfly  with  his  net. 

' '  Have  you  caught  any  new  butterflies  to 
day  ? ' '  she  asked,  bending  to  tie  her  shoe 
string. 

"  No,  nothing  new,"  he  answered.  She 
straightened  up,  brushed  a  drop  or  two  of  milk 
from  the  hem  of  her  pink  skirt,  passed  a  slim 
hand  over  her  crumpled  apron,  and  leaned  back 
against  the  tree  trunk,  touching  her  hair  lightly 
with  her  fingers. 

"  Last  night,"  she  said,  "  a  great  green  miller- 
moth  came  around  the  lamp.  I  caught  him  for 
you." 

"  A  Luna,"  he  said,  "  thank  you,  Celia." 

' '  Luna, ' '  she  repeated  gravely,  ' '  is  he  rare  ? ' ' 

She  had  picked  up  a  few  phrases  from  Garland 
and  used  them  with  pretty  conscientiousness. 

' '  No, ' '  said  Garland,  ' '  not  very  rare — but  I 
will  keep  this  one. ' ' 

' '  I  caught  some  more,  too, ' '  she  continued,  '  *  a 
yellow  miller — 

"  Moth,  Celia." 

"  Miller-moth—" 

16 


242  The  Boys  Sister. 

'  'No— a  moth— " 

"  A  yellow  moth,"  she  continued  serenely, 
"  that  had  eyes  on  its  wings." 

"  Saturnia  lo,"  said  Garland. 

"  lo,"  repeated  the  girl,  softly,  "  is  it  rare  ?  " 

"  It  is  rare  here.     I  will  keep  it." 

The  Maltese  cat  lifted  its  voice  and  rubbed  its 
arched  back  against  the  milk  pail.  Its  name  was 
Julia  and  Garland  called  it  to  him. 

' '  Julia  has  a  saucer  of  milk  on  the  porch  ;  she 
is  only  teasing,"  said  Celia. 

But  Julia's  voice  was  sustained  and  piercing, 
and  Garland  rose  laughing  and  poured  a  few 
drops  of  warm  fresh  milk  into  the  half-filled 
saucer.  Then  Julia  exposed  the  depth  of  her 
capriciousness  ;  she  sniffed  at  the  milk,  walked 
around  it  twice,  touched  the  saucer  playfully, 
patted  a  stray  leaf  with  velvet  paw,  and  then 
suddenly  pretending  that  she  was  in  danger  of 
instant  annihilation  from  some  impending  calam 
ity,  pranced  into  the  middle  of  the  lawn,  crooked 
her  tail,  rushed  halfway  up  a  tree-trunk,  slid  back, 
and  finally  charged  on  the  tethered  kid  with 
swollen  tail  and  ears  flattened. 

Garland  went  back  to  his  seat  on  the  turf. 
"  It  is  the  way  of  the  world,"  he  said  gaily. 

Celia  picked  up  a  pine  cone  and  sniffed  daintily 
at  the  dried  apex. 

* '  Julia  was  not  hungry ;  she  only  wanted  atten 
tion,"  he  added. 


The  Boys  Sister.  243 

"  Some  people  are  hungry  for  attention  too, — 
and  never  get  it,"  said  Celia. 

Garland  knew  what  she  meant.  It  was  com 
mon  gossip  among  the  free-born  who  congregated 
about  the  saliva  stricken  stove  at  Uncle  Billy's  or 
sat  on  musty  barrels  in  the  Post  Office  store. 

"But,"  said  Garland,  "you  do  not  want  his 
attention, — now. ' ' 

' '  No, ' '  she  said  indifferently,  * '  I  do  not  want 
it  now, — it  is  too  late." 

"  Then  don't  let  's  think  about  it,"  said  Gar 
land  quickly. 

'  Think  !  think  ! ' '  she  answered  without  impa 
tience,  ' '  what  else  can  I  do  ?  " 

' '  And  you  think  of  him  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,  not  of  him,  but  of  his  injustice,"  she  said 
quietly. 

They  had  talked  sometimes  on  the  subject — he 
never  knew  just  how  it  came  about.  Perhaps  his 
interest  in  Tip  had  moved  her  to  the  confidence,  if 
it  could  be  called  a  confidence,  for  all  the  free-born 
were  unbidden  participants  in  the  secret.  The 
story  was  commonplace  enough.  When  Celia 
was  sixteen,  four  years  back,  she  lived  with  an 
elect  uncle  in  the  manufacturing  town  of  High- 
field,  forty  miles  down  the  river.  One  day  a  road 
company  with  more  repertoire  than  cash,  stranded 
at  Bowies'  Opera  House  and  drifted  back  by  high 
way  and  byway  toward  Boston.  One  member  of 
the  company,  however,  did  not  drift  back.  His 


244  The  Boy  s  Sister. 

name  was  Clarence  Minster  and  he  said  lie  had 
found  salvation,  which  was  true  in  one  sense,  for 
Celia's  elect  uncle  clawed  him  into  the  fold  and 
having  cleansed  his  soul,  gave  him  a  job  to  cleanse 
the  stable  at  very  few  dollars  a  month.  Celia  was 
young  and  simple  and  pitiful.  She  also  possessed 
five  hundred  dollars  of  her  own.  So  Clarence 
Minster  first  ran  away  with  her  and  then  with 
most  of  her  five  hundred  dollars.  Unfortunately 
the  marriage  was  legal,  and  the  uncle  implacable, 
so  Celia  took  her  brother  Tip  in  one  hand,  and  a 
thinned- out  pocket-book  in  the  other,  and  went  to 
her  dead  parent's  home,  the  stone  house  at  Ten 
Pin  Corners.  She  sometimes  heard  of  Minster, 
never  from  him.  He  had  struck  the  public  taste 
as  "  Dick  Willard,"  the  hero  of  the  lachrymose 
melodrama,  ' '  Honour, ' '  and  his  photographs  were 
occasionally  seen  in  Highfield  store  windows. 

This  was  Celia's  story — part  of  it.  The  other 
part  began  as  she  began  to  listen  to  Garland,  and 
to  bring  him  delicate  winged  moths  that  sought 
her  chamber  lamp  as  she  bent  over  Tip's  patched 
clothes.  Something  also  was  beginning  for  Gar 
land;  he  felt  it  growing  as  he  moved  among  the 
lilies  in  the  dusk  while  Celia  held  the  bullseye 
lantern,  and  the  great  sphinx  moths  hovered  over 
the  pinks.  He  felt  it  in  the  crystal  clear  morn 
ings  when  sleepy  butterflies  clung  to  the  late 
lilacs,  and  Celia  moved  far  afield  through  raspber 
ries  and  yellow  buttercups.  He  felt  it  now,  as  he 
lay  beside  her  among  level  shadows  and  gilt- tipped 


The  Boys  Sister.  245 

verdure — lie  felt  it  and  wondered  whether  it  was 
love.  Perhaps  Celia  could  have  told  him,  I  don't 
know,  but  it  was  plain  enough  to  the  tethered  kid 
and  the  Maltese  cat,  to  the  drifting  swallows,  and 
the  orioles  in  the  linden  tree  besides  the  well- 
sweep.  It  was  simple  and  self-evident  to  the 
Alderney,  lowing  at  the  bars,  to  the  Jersey  star 
ing  stolidly  at  Celia,  to  the  robins,  the  hedge  birds 
— yes,  to  the  tireless  crickets  chirping  from  every 
tussock. 

Now  whether  or  not  it  was  equally  plain  to  Tip 
as  he  came  trudging  up  the  gravel  walk,  I  do  not 
know. 

He  said,  "  Hello,  Cis,"  and  came  and  kissed  her 
— a  thing  he  did  not  often  do  voluntarily.  "  I 
smashed  Bill  Timerson  in  the  jaw, "  he  continued, 
"  and  he  told  the  teacher,  and  I  dasn't  go  back." 
Then  he  glanced  humbly  at  Garland. 

Celia  had  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  she  also  turned 
instinctively  to  Garland.  ' '  Speak  to  him,  please, ' ' 
she  said,  ' '  I  can  do  nothing. ' ' 

'  Yes  you  can, ' '  said  Tip — ' '  you  and  Mr.  Gar 
land  together.     I  've  told  him." 

' '  Tip  will  go  back  to  school  to-morrow, ' '  said 
Garland,  ' '  and  take  his  thrashing. ' ' 

Tip  looked  doubtful. 

"  And,"  continued  Garland,  "  as  Bill  Timerson 
is  older  and  stronger  than  Tip,  Tip  will  continue 
to  punch  him  whenever  assaulted." 

"  Oh— no  !  "  pleaded  Celia. 

"  L,et  him,"  said  Garland,  smiling.     Tip  threw 


246  The  Boys  Sister. 

his  arms  around  his  sister's  neck  and  kissed  her 
again,  and  she  held  him  tightly  to  her  milk- 
stained  apron. 

' '  Mr.   Garland  knows, ' '  she  whispered,    ' '  my 
darling,  try  to  be  good." 


III. 


GARIyAND  leaned  back  in  his  chair  in  the 
dingy  bar-room  of  the  Constitution  Hotel. 
His  abstracted  gaze  wandered  from  Uncle 
Billy  to  a  framed  chromo  on  the  wall,  a  faithful 
reproduction  of  some  catchup  bottles,  a  boiled  lob 
ster  and  a  platter  of  uninviting  oysters.  The 
Hon.  Hanford  Perkins  was  speaking — he  had  been 
speaking  for  half  an  hour.  For  years,  like  Peffer, 
he  had  been  telling  the  Government  what  to  do, 
but  his  patience,  unlike  Peffer's,  was  exhausted, 
and  now  he  had  decided  to  let  the  country  go  to 
the  devil.  He  wrote  no  more  letters  to  the  High- 
field  Banner,  he  sulked,  and  an  ungrateful  coun 
try  never  even  knew  it  At  times,  however, 
under  the  kindly  stimulus  of  Uncle  Billy's  "j'y- 
full  juice,"  he  condescended  to  address  the  free- 
born  in  the  bar-room  of  the  Constitution  Hotel. 
He  was  doing  it  now.  He  had  touched  upon 
silver  with  the  elephantine  dexterity  of  a  Populist, 
he  had  settled  the  tariff  to  the  satisfaction  of  Ten 
Pin  Corners,  he  spoke  of  the  folly  of  maintaining 
a  navy,  and  dismissed  the  army  with  a  masterly 
sarcasm  in  which  the  phrase,  '  *  fuss  '  n  feathers  ' ' 
247 


248  The  Boys  Sister. 

was  dwelt  upon.  Uncle  Billy,  in  the  popular  atti 
tude  of  a  cherub,  elbows  on  the  bar,  gazed  at  him 
with  undisguised  admiration.  Cy  Pettingil,  fear 
ful  that  he  was  not  on  an  equality  with  the  drum 
mer  in  the  corner,  spat  upon  the  stove  until  he 
was.  Then  the  drummer  told  an  unclean  story 
which  was  a  success,  but  the  Hon.  Hanford  Per 
kins,  feeling  slighted  at  the  loss  of  attention,  told 
a  scandalous  bit  of  gossip  which  threw  the  drum 
mer's  story  into  the  shade. 

Garland  stirred  restlessly,  and  opened  Wilson 
on  Hybrids  again.  He  had  been  reading  for  a 
moment  or  two  when  a  name  caught  his  ear,  and 
he  closed  his  book  and  raised  his  eyes. 

The  Hon.  Hanford  Perkins  was  speaking, 
and  Garland  leaned  over  and  touched  his  coat 
sleeve. 

' '  You  are  speaking  of  a  woman, ' '  he  said,  '  *  that 
is  not  the  tone  to  use  nor  is  this  the  place  to  dis 
cuss  any  woman." 

"  Hey  ?  "  said  the  Hon.  Hanford,  with  a  laugh, 
and  winked  at  Uncle  Billy. 

' '  I  guess  he  can  say  what  he  dam  pleases  in 
my  house, ' '  said  Uncle  Billy,  expectorating ; 
"  the  girl  's  not  yourn." 

11  The  girl,"  added  Cy  Pettingil,  "  is  a  damned 
little " 

Then  Garland  took  Cy  Pettingil  by  the  throat, 
swung  him  around  the  room  twice,  and  kicked 
him  headlong  into  the  billiard-table,  under  which 
Pettingil  hastily  scrambled. 


The  Boys  Sister.  249 

' '  Now, ' '  said  Garland  to  the  Honourable  Han- 
ford  Perkins,  ' '  do  you  want  to  follow  Pettingil  ? 
If  you  do,  just  wag  that  bunch  of  whiskers  on 
your  chin  again." 

The  drummer  in  the  corner  smiled  uneasily, 
picked  up  his  sample  case  and  key,  and  said  good 
night  in  an  uncertain  voice  to  Garland.  Uncle 
Billy's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Garland  with  a  fasci 
nated  stare,  and  his  jaw  slowly  dropped.  The 
Hon.  Hanford  Perkins  cast  one  amazed  glance  at 
Pettingil,  another  at  Uncle  Billy,  and  waddled 
majestically  out  into  the  street. 

When  Garland  had  picked  up  his  book  and  left 
the  hotel,  Cy  Pettingil  crawled  from  beneath  the 
billiard-table  and  approached  Uncle  Billy.  He 
expectorated  and  leaned  on  the  bar,  but  no 
amount  of  ejected  saliva  could  re-establish  him  in 
his  own  estimation — he  felt  this  bitterly. 

"I  '11  git  the  law  on  him,"  he  said  after  a 
moist  silence,  and  rubbed  his  red  hand  over  his 
chin.  * '  I  '11  hev  the  law  onto  him, ' '  he  repeated  ; 
but  Uncle  Billy  was  non-committal. 

"  Gimme  a  little  bug-juice,"  said  Cy,  after  an 
uncomfortable  silence,  and  tossed  a  quarter  upon 
the  bar,  with  ostentatious  carelessness,—  "  I  'm 
dry,  Billy." 

"Yew  be?"  said  Uncle  Billy,  "wall,  yew 
don't  git  no  bug-juice  nor  nawthin'  here." 

"Hey  !  "  said  Pettingil. 

"Naw,"  said  Uncle  Billy,  scornfully,  and 
retired  to  the  depths  of  the  bar. 


250  The  Boys  Sister. 

Garland  walked  slowly  down  the  road  in  the 
twilight,  switching  the  grass  with  the  bamboo 
staff  of  his  butterfly-net,  angry  with  himself  and 
nauseated  with  the  free-born.  And  as  he  walked 
he  was  aware  of  a  light  touch  on  his  arm,  and  a 
lighter  footstep  by  his  side.  It  was  Tip. 

' '  I — I  was  in  the  hallway  of  the  hotel, ' '  said 
Tip,  eagerly,  "  'n'  I  seen  what  you  done  to  Cy 
Pettingil " 

'  *  What  were  you  doing  there  ?  ' '  said  Garland 
sharply. 

"Buy in'  salt  for  Cis, — oh  !  I  just  love  you, 
Mister  Garland  ! ' '  And  before  Garland  could 
raise  his  eyes,  Tip  had  flung  himself  into  his  arms 
sobbing  :  "I  ain't  big  enough  to  lick  all  the 
loafers  in  town,  but  I  lick  all  their  sons,  and 
Cis  says  I  am  growin'  fast.  Oh,  you  do  love  me 
and  Cis,  don't  you,  Mister  Garland  ?  " 

' '  Yes, ' '  said  Garland,  gravely,  and  kissed  his 
wet  face.  Then  he  took  him  by  the  hand  and 
told  him  how  low  and  mean  a  bar-room  fight  was, 
and  that  he  must  never  tell  Celia  what  had  hap 
pened.  He  tried  to  explain  to  him  what  was 
necessary  to  resent,  and  what  was  not  ;  he  spoke 
sympathetically  as  he  always  did,  and  Tip  ab 
sorbed  every  word. 

"  Now  let  us  forget  it,"  said  Garland,  "  Tip, 
your  grammar  is  very  uncertain.  Why  do  you 
not  try  to  speak  as  your  sister  does  ? ' ' 

"  The  boys  I  play  with  don't  speak  that  way," 
said  Tip. 


The  Boys  Sister.  251 

"  Neither  does  Cy  Pettingil, — he  speaks  as  you 
do,"  said  Garland. 

Tip's  hand  trembled  and  clasped  Garland's 
tighter.  "  L,earn  me  what  to  say,  Mister  Gar 
land,  ' '  he  said  after  a  silence. 

"  I  will,"  replied  Garland,  (<  how  would  you 
like  to  go  to  school  in  Boston  ?  ' ' 

"  When?" 

"  Next  winter." 

"  Can  Cis  come  too?" 

"  I — had  n't  thought, — you  can't  leave  her,  can 
you,  Tip?" 

"  No,"  said  Tip. 

"  Well — we  '11  see — you  need  not  speak  of  this 
to  your  sister;  I  will — er — discuss  the  question 
with  her  later, ' '  said  Garland. 

Celia  was  standing  under  the  pines  as  they 
walked  up  the  gravel  path.  She  knew  his  foot 
steps  and  came  up  on  the  verandah  to  greet  him. 

"  Why,  you  are  all  over  white  !  "  she  said; 
"  has  Tip  spilled  the  salt  on  you  ?  " 

c  Tip  and  I  hugged  each  other  to  the  detriment 
of  the  salt, ' '  said  Garland  laughing  and  brushing 
the  white  grains  from  his  coat. 

'  Tip,  dear,  have  you  been  naughty  ?  ' '  asked 
Celia. 

"  Nope,"  said  Tip  so  promptly  that  even  Celia 
laughed,  and  Tip  retired  to  bed,  glowing  with 
virtuous  resolves.  Celia  went  up  to  his  room 
and  waited  until  he  had  said  his  prayers.  She 
was  troubled  by  the  fervency  of  his  prayer  for 


252  The  Boys  Sister. 

Garland,  but  joined  faintly  in  the  Amen,  and 
covered  Tip  with  the  white  sheets. 

"  Mr.  Garland  says  he  loves  you,  Cis,"  said 
Tip,  holding  up  his  lips  to  be  kissed.  Celia 
caught  her  breath  and  laid  one  hand  on  the  bed 
post. 

''Tip,"  she  faltered. 

"Yep — an'  me,  too,"  said  Tip,  blissfully. 

He  fell  asleep  soon  ;  Celia  stood  and  watched 
him  in  the  moonlight.  She  was  thinking  of  Gar 
land  ;  Tip  was  dreaming  of  him. 

When  she  came  down,  Garland  was  busy  among 
the  lilies  with  bullseye  lantern  and  butterfly  net, 
and  she  took  a  chair  on  the  verandah  and  watched 
him.  Two  "Imperial"  moths  had  fallen  to  his 
lot,  perfect  specimens,  and  he  was  happy,  for  had 
not  Professor  Wormly  cautiously  deplored  the 
absence  of  this  species  in  the  whole  country  ? 

* '  One  on  Wormly, ' '  laughed  Garland,  drop 
ping  the  great  yellow  and  violet-brown  moths 
from  his  cyanide-jar  into  her  lap,  "are  they  not 
pretty,  Celia?" 

Since  Garland  had  come,  Celia  had  seen  beauty 
through  his  eyes  where  ever  his  eyes  saw  it  ;  the 
shadows  on  the  pasture,  the  long  light  over  the 
hills,  the  massed  pines  red  in  the  sunset,  the 
morning  meadow  sheeted  with  cobwebs.  For  the 
first  time  in  her  innocent  life  she  had  turned  to 
watch  the  colour  in  the  evening  sky,  she  had 
stooped  to  lift  a  clover-drunk  butterfly  and  exam 
ine  the  rainbow  span  of  its  wings,  she  lingered  at 


The  Boys  Sister.  253 

the  bars,  listening  to  the  music  of  the  meadow 
brook  along  the  alders.  So  when  he  asked  her  if 
the  moths  were  beautiful,  she  smiled  and  saw  that 
they  were  ;  and  when  he  asked  her  to  hold  his 
lantern  among  the  lilies,  she  prettily  consented. 

Up  and  down  they  moved,  to  and  fro  through 
the  lilies  and  clustered  pinks,  but  the  moonlight 
was  too  clear  and  the  swift  sphinx  moths  did  not 
visit  the  garden  that  night. 

He  was  standing  still,  looking  at  the  lilies,  and 
she  was  swinging  the  lantern  idly.  ' '  About  Tip, ' ' 
he  said  abruptly,  ' '  do  you  think  the  school  here 
is  good  for  him  ?  ' ' 

"  I  know  it  is  not,"  she  said  sadly. 

' '  His  English  is  alarming, ' '  said  Garland. 

' '  I  know  it — what  can  I  do  ?  " 

"I  don't  know;  if  he  goes  to  school  he  will 
play  with  those  children,  I  suppose." 

"He  was  such  a  well-bred  child, "  said  Celia, 
"  before — before  we  came  here.  He  talked  when 
he  was  three.  I  seem  to  have  little  influence  over 
him." 

' '  You  have  a  great  deal — not  in  that  way  per 
haps.  Suppose  you  take  Tip  out  of  school, 
Celia." 

"What  would  become  of  him?"  exclaimed 
Celia  in  gentle  alarm. 

"It  's  better  than  leaving  him  there.  I — er — I 
might  help  him  a  bit." 

"  But — it  's  very,  very  kind  of  you — but  you 
will  go  away  before  winter — will  you  not  ?  " 


254  The  Boys  Sister. 

' '  I  don't  know, ' '  said  Garland,  and  instinctively 
laid  his  hand  on  hers.  At  the  contact,  her  cheeks 
flamed  in  the  darkness. 

"  Celia,"  he  said,  "  I  do  not  want  to  go." 
Her  face  was  turned  from  him.  After  a  mo 
ment  his  fingers  unclosed  and  her  impassive  hand 
fell  to  her  side.  The  swift  touch  left  him  silent 
and  awkward.  He  tried  to  speak  lightly  again 
but  could  not.  Finally  he  folded  his  net,  extin 
guished  the  lantern  and  said  good-night.  L,ong 
after  he  had  disappeared  she  stood  among  the 
lilies,  her  hands  softly  clasped  to  her  breast. 


IV. 


HEU  !  "  sniffed  Uncle  Billy,  as  he  poured 
out  a  glass  of  beer  for  himself  behind 
the  fly-soiled  bar  at  the  Constitution 
Hotel,  "  there  hain't  a  man  araound  taown  dass 
say  a  word  abaout  the  Minster  girl  when  Mister 
Garland  's  a  settin'  here." 

"  Mister  Garland  's  a  skunk  !"  said  Cy  Pettin- 
gil,  morosely. 

"He  ain't  the  skunk  that  yew  be,  Cy  Pettin- 
gil,"  retorted  Uncle  Billy,  wiping  his  mouth  with 
the  back  of  his  hand. 

Garland  came  in  a  moment  later,  satchel  in 
hand,  and  laid  a  roll  of  bills  on  the  bar.  Uncle 
Billy  moistened  his  thumb  with  his  tongue, 
counted  them,  and  shoved  them  into  his  waistcoat 
pocket.  "C'rect,"  he  said,  shifting  his  quid, 
( '  what  can  I  dew  for  yew,  sir  ?  " 

' '  Send  this  satchel  with  my  trunk, ' '  said  Gar 
land,  "good-bye,  Uncle  Billy." 

Uncle  Billy  emerged  from  the  bar,  wiped  his 
right  hand  on  his  trousers  and  extended  it. 

"Good  luck,  an'  many  bugs  to  yew,  Mister 
Garland.  I  'm  real  cut  up  that  yew  air  goin', 
255 


256  The  Boys  Sister. 

sir;  enny thing  in  the  bug  line  thet  I  hev  I  '11 
send  t'  Noo  York." 

"  Thank  you,  Uncle  Billy,"  said  Garland,  and 
walked  out  of  the  hotel,  gloves  in  one  hand,  cane 
in  the  other. 

Cy  Pettingil  sneered  when  he  was  gone,  but, 
receiving  no  sympathy  from  Uncle  Billy,  went 
home  and  nagged  at  his  wife,  a  pale  woman 
weighed  down  with  trouble  and  American  pastry 
— until  she  retorted.  Then  he  struck  her. 

Garland  walked  on  past  the  church  and  school- 
house,  through  the  sweet-briar  lane  by  the  Post 
Office,  and,  taking  the  path  above  the  cemetery, 
followed  it  until  he  came  in  sight  of  the  stone 
house  among  the  pines.  The  Maltese  cat  trotted 
out  to  greet  him,  the  tethered  kid  stared  at  him 
from  the  lawn,  but  Celia  was  invisible,  and  he 
stood  hesitating  under  the  woodbine  on  the  porch. 
He  had  never  entered  Celia' s  house.  She  had 
never  asked  him  in,  and  he  knew  that  she  was 
right.  He  sat  down  under  the  pines  and  looked 
off  over  the  pastures  where  the  Alderney  and 
Jersey  were  feeding  along  the  brookside. 

Garland  had  come  to  say  good-bye.  There  was 
nothing  that  he  could  do  for  Tip ;  Celia  was  not 
able  to  send  him  to  a  better  school,  nor  could  she 
have  afforded  to  go  with  him.  Kven  if  she  should 
accept  an  offer  to  send  Tip  to  school,  what  would 
she  do  there  alone  in  that  scandal  nest  of  the  free- 
born  ?  So  Garland  sat  poking  pine  cones  with 
his  stick  and  crumpling  his  gloves  in  his  brown 


The  Boy  s  Sister.  257 

hand  until  a  tangle  of  sun- warmed  curls  rose  over 
the  fence  and  Tip  appeared,  smoking  a  cigarette. 
When  he  saw  Garland  he  dropped  the  cigarette 
and  looked  the  other  way,  whistling. 

"Come,  Tip,"  said  Garland,  wearily,  "let's 
have  it  out  before  Celia  comes. ' ' 

Tip  went  to  him  at  once. 

' '  Who  gave  you  that  cigarette  ? ' '  asked  Garland. 

"No  one,  I  made  it." 

"Tobacco?" 

"  No,  sir,  sweet-fern  and  corn  silk." 

' '  That  is  not  much  better.  Tip,  are  you  going 
to  stop  this  ?  ' ' 

The  child  picked  up  a  pine  cone,  examined  it 
carefully,  and  tossed  it  toward  the  Maltese  cat. 

' '  Answer  me, ' '  said  Garland. 

The  child  was  silent. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Garland. 

"I  promise!"  cried  Tip, — "I  won't  never 
smoke  nothing, — don't  go  away,  Mr.  Garland  !  " 

' '  Is  that  your  word  of  honour,  Tip  ?  ' ' 

"Yes,  sir." 

* '  All  right, ' r  said  Garland,  smiling,  ' '  now  you 
have  promised  me  not  to  drink  or  smoke  until  you 
are  twenty-one.  I  know  I  can  trust  you,  and  I 
am  very  happy.  You  need  not  tell  Celia  of  this. ' ' 

"  I — I  will  if  you  want  ?  "  said  Tip,  humbly. 

"No, — it  will  only  worry  her — and  you  have 
promised  now.  What  did  you  do  in  school  to 
day  ?" 

' '  I  punched  Jimmy  Bro ' ' 

17 


258  The  Boys  Sister. 

1 '  I  did  not  ask  for  an  account  of  your  athletic 
victories, ' '  said  Garland,  ' '  I  merely  wished  to 
know  in  what  particular  branch  of  the  applied 
sciences  you  excelled. ' ' 

"Wh— a— at,  sir?" 

"  Were  you  perfect  in  reading  ?  " 

"N— no,  sir." 

"In  writing?" 

"No— o— " 

"  In  arithmetic?" 

Tip  stirred  restlessly,  and  looked  at  the  Mal 
tese  cat.  Then  he  brightened  and  said,  "  A 
skunk  got  into  the  cellar  while  school  was  goin' . 
Teacher  told  us  all  about  skunks  an'  anermals. ' ' 

"  Oh,"  said  Garland,  "  an  object  lesson  in  nat 
ural  history  ?  ' ' 

"  Yep.  Skunk  ain't  its  real  name,  its  real 
name  is  Methodist  Americanus ' ' 

"  What  's  that  ?  "  exclaimed  Garland. 

( '  Methodist  Americanus ' 

"  Mephetis  Americanus,  Tip,"  said  Garland 
gravely. 

"  Oh  !  I  thought  the  man  what  named  it 
might  have  had  a  uncle  like  mine ' ' 

"Tip  !" 

"Yes,  sir?" 

' '  That  will  do, "  &  id  Garland  seriously. 

The  child  nodded  contentedly  and  began  an 
elaborate  series  of  evolutions,  the  object  of  which 
was  to  capture  the  Maltese  cat.  The  cat  was  per 
fectly  aware  of  this;  she  allowed  the  boy  to  ap- 


The  Boys  Sister.  259 

proach  her  until  his  hand  was  within  an  inch  of 
her  back ;  then  she  ran  a  few  feet,  cocked  her  ears, 
switched  her  tail,  and  pretended  to  forget  him. 
After  a  while  they  disappeared  behind  the  lilac 
bushes  at  the  end  of  the  verandah,  and  Garland 
leaned  back  against  the  tree  and  poked  at  pine 
cones  again. 

The  sun  sank  lower  and  lower,  flooding  the 
pastures,  tinging  the  calm  meadow  pools  with  the 
splendour  of  its  fading  glory.  In  the  evening  glow 
the  turf  burned  like  golden  tapestry,  the  swallows 
twittered  among  the  chimneys  or  drifted  and  rose 
high  in  the  quiet  air,  and  the  chickens  looked  up 
with  restless  peeps  to  their  roost  in  the  lilac 
branches.  An  orange  light,  ever  deepening,  dyed 
the  edges  of  the  pools  where  the  ripples  of  a  rising 
fish  or  a  low  dipping  gnat  disturbed  the  surface 
reflection  of  the  placid  evening  sky.  From  palest 
green  to  grey  the  horizon  changed  until,  like  a 
breath  creeping  over  a  window,  a  rosy  flush 
stained  the  zenith.  And  the  sun  had  set. 

With  sunset  Celia  came,  walking  slowly  over 
the  grass  that  shone  in  the  shadows  with  a  green 
almost  metallic.  She  started  slightly  when  Gar 
land  moved  in  the  shade  of  the  pines,  but  came  to 
him,  offering  her  hand. 

' '  Then  you  are  going, ' '  die  said  simply. 

"Yes, — I  am  going.  My  train  leaves  at  nine 
to-night.  How  did  you  know  ?  ' ' 

She  glanced  at  his  gloves  and  stick  and  smiled 
gently. 


260  The  Boys  Sister. 

1 '  I  am  going, ' '  he  said,  ' '  because  they  want  me 
in  New  York.  Some  day  I  will  come  back ' ' 

A  ghost  of  a  smile  touched  her  lips  again.  He 
moved  impatiently  nearer,  and  she  looked  at  his 
troubled  eyes. 

' '  Shall  I  come  back  ?  "  he  asked  awkwardly. 

' '  Yes — come  ;   Tip  will  welcome  you ' ' 

"And  you?" 

"  I,"— she  said  softly—"  I  don't  know." 

1 '  What  troubles  you  ?  "  he  said  ;  but  she 
turned  her  head  toward  the  sunset.  ' '  What 
troubles  you?  "  he  said  again; — "is — is  he 
coming  ?  ' ' 

She  dropped  her  head. 

' '  When  ? ' '  asked  Garland  in  a  hard  voice. 

"To-night." 

Something  of  the  horror  in  her  face  as  she 
turned  it  was  reflected  in  his  own.  This,  then, 
was  the  reward  for  her  quiet  struggle  for  life ;  this 
was  the  reward, — the  return  of  this  miserable 
actor  whom  she  had  learned  to  loathe — her  hus 
band  !  Whew !  the  stench  of  perfume  and  grease 
paint  seemed  to  fill  his  nostrils;  he  could  see  the 
smooth  fat  face  shaved  blue,  as  he  had  seen  it 
behind  the  footlights  in  the  metropolis,  the  bull 
neck,  the  professional  curly  head  ! 

Then  he  set  his  teeth  and  dug  his  stick  into  the 
turf  at  his  feet.  The  girl  moved  a  step  from  him. 

' '  Celia, ' '  he  said  unsteadily,  ' '  have  you  ever 
thought  of  divorce  ?  ' ' 

"Yes." 


The  Boys  Sister.  261 

They  were  silent  again.  The  whistle  of  a  dis 
tant  train  startled  Garland  from  his  reverie  and 
he  picked  up  his  gloves  and  buttoned  his  coat. 
It  was  the  incoming  train  from  New  York.  With 
a  frightened  glance  at  him  she  held  out  her  hand, 
murmuring  good-bye,  and  turned  toward  the 
house,  but  he  stepped  swiftly  to  her  side  and 
touched  her  arm. 

Oh,  the  terror  in  the  eyes  that  met  his, — and  the 
kiss, — as  she  clung  to  his  breast  in  the  twilight 
there — the  kiss  that  solved  all  problems,  that 
broke  down  barriers  and  made  the  way  plain  and 
clear, — the  way  that  they  should  travel  together 
through  life  and  the  life  to  come. 

And  so  they  went  away  into  the  world  together, 
and  Tip  went  with  them,  one  dimpled  hand  in 
Garland's,  one  clasping  the  Maltese  cat  close  to 
his  breast. 


THE  CRIME. 


' '  How,'  says  he,  blessing  himself,  '  would  I  whip  this 
child    ....    if  it  were  my  child.' " 

SAMUEI,  PEPYS. 


THE  CRIME. 


"  Heark !  Oh,  heark  !  you  guilty  trees, 
In  whose  gloomy  galleries 
Was  the  cruellest  murder  done 
That  e're  yet  eclipst  the  sunne." 


I. 


NOW  it  happened  one  day  in  the  early  Spring 
time  when  the  sky  was  china  blue  and 
filmy  clouds  trailed  like  lace  across  the 
disk  of  a  pale  sun,  that  I,  Henry  Stenhouse,  nine 
teen  years  of  age,  well  and  sound  in  mind  and 
body,  decided  to  commit  a  crime. 

The  crime  which  I  contemplated  was  murder. 
For  three  years  past  I  had  watched  the  object  of 
my  pursuit;  I  had  peered  at  him  at  night  as  he 
lay  sleeping,  I  had  crept  stealthily  to  his  home, 
evening  after  evening,  waiting  for  a  chance  to 
kill  him.  I  had  seen  him  moving  about  on  his 
daily  business,  growing  fatter  and  sleeker,  serene, 
sly,  self-centred,  absorbed  in  his  own  affairs,  yet 
keeping  a  keen,  shrewd  eye  upon  strangers.  For 
265 


266  The  Crime. 

he  mistrusted  strangers ;  those  who  passed  by  him, 
not  even  noticing  him,  he  mistrusted  less  than  he 
did  others  who  came  to  him  with  smiles  and  out 
stretched  hands. 

He  never  accepted  anything  from  anybody.  A 
strange  step  or  the  sound  of  a  strange  voice  made 
him  shy  and  suspicious.  But  he  was  cold  and 
selfish,  cold-blooded  as  a  fish— in  fact  he — but  I 
had  better  tell  you  a  little  more  about  him  first. 
He  was  my  enemy;  I  determined  to  kill  him,  and 
perhaps  he  read  it  in  my  drawn  face  and  sparkling 
eyes,  for,  as  I  stepped  toward  him,  the  first  time, 
he  turned  and  fled — fled  straight  across  the  Clover- 
mead  River. 

And  although  I  searched  the  river  banks  up 
and  down  and  up  and  down  again,  I  saw  no  more 
of  him  that  day. 

When  I  went  home,  excited,  furious,  I  made 
passionate  preparations  to  kill  him.  All  night 
long  I  tossed  feverishly  in  my  tumbled  bed,  long 
ing,  aching  for  the  morning.  When  the  morning 
came  I  stole  out  of  the  house  and  bent  my  steps 
towards  the  river,  for  I  had  reason  to  believe  that 
he  lived  somewhere  in  that  neighbourhood.  As  I 
crept  along,  the  early  morning  sun  glittered  on 
something  that  I  clutched  with  nervous  fingers. 
It  was  a  weapon. 

This  happened  three  years  ago ;  I  did  not  find 
him  that  morning  although  I  searched  until  the 
shadows  fell  over  meadow  and  thicket.  That 
night  too  found  me  on  his  trail,  but  the  calm 


The  Crime.  267 

Spring  moon  rose  over  Clovermead  village  and  its 
pale  light  fell  on  no  scene  of  blood. 

So  for  three  years  I  trailed  him  and  stalked  him, 
always  awaiting  the  moment  to  strike, — praying 
for  an  opportunity  to  slay ;  but  he  never  gave  me 
one.  He  was  fierce  and  shifty,  swift  as  lightning 
when  aroused,  but  the  battle  that  I  offered  he 
declined.  Oh,  he  was  deep, — deep  and  crafty, 
cold-blooded  as  a  fish, — in  fact,  he  was  a  fish, 
Mine  Knemy,  the  Trout. 

Do  you  imagine  that  the  killing  of  Mine  Enemy 
was  a  crime  ?  No,  my  friend — that,  properly 
done,  was  what  is  known  as  sport;  improperly 
done,  it  is  murder; — there,  the  murder  's  out  !  I 
was  going  to  catch  the  trout  with  bait  ! 

You,  dear  brethren  of  the  angle,  brave  fly-fish 
ermen,  all,  wet  or  dry,  turn  not  from  me  with 
loathing  !  Hear  my  confession,  the  confession  of 
one  who  was  tempted,  listened,  fell,  and  fished  for 
a  trout  with  a  worm  ! 

Anyway,  it  's  your  own  fault  if  you  throw  down 
this  book  and  beat  your  breasts  with  cruel  vio 
lence.  I  told  you  that  my  story  was  to  be  the 
story  of  a  crime,  and  if  you  don't  like  to  read 
about  crimes,  you  had  no  business  to  begin  this 
tale.  There  are  worse  crimes  too, — some  people 
habitually  fish  with  bait ;  some  net  fish,  and  there 
exist  a  few  degraded  objects  in  human  shape  who 
snare  trout  with  a  wicked  wire  loop  on  the  end  of 
a  sapling. 

Now  I  don't  propose  to  tell  you  about  these 


268  The  Crime. 

things,  I  am  no  depraved  realist,  so  thank  your 
stars  that  the  crime  I  contemplated  was  no  worse 
than  it  was,  and  listen  to  the  story  of  an  erring 
brother.  Mea  culpa  ! 

I  was  only  nineteen,  a  student  at  the  State 
School  of  Engineering,  and  in  my  senior  year. 
What  I  did  in  engineering  was  barely  sufficient  to 
carry  me  through  my  examination ;  what  I  did  in 
shooting  and  trout  fishing  might  have  furnished 
material  for  a  sporting  library.  I  had  no  particu 
lar  aversion  to  my  profession;  my  father  before 
me  had  been  a  mining  engineer.  I  was  not  en 
tirely  ignorant  either  ;  I  knew  mica-chist  from 
malachite,  and  I  could — but  that  's  of  no  conse 
quence  now.  It  is  true,  however,  that  instead  of 
applying  myself  to  t  the  studies  of  my  profession  I 
spent  a  great  deal  of  time  contributing  to  a  New 
York  sporting  journal  called  the  Trigger.  I  pro 
duced  a  couple  of  columns  a  week  on  such  sub 
jects  as  "German  Trout  versus  Natives,"  "Do 
Automatic  Reels  Pay  ?  ' '  and  ' '  Experiments  with 
the  Amherst  Pheasant. ' '  But  my  article  entitled 
' '  The  Enemies  of  the  Spawning-Beds, ' '  won  me 
recognition,  and  I  became  a  regular  contributor  to 
the  Trigger. 

How  I  ever  passed  my  examinations  is  one  of 
those  mysteries  that  had  better  remain  uninvesti- 
gated.  I  don't  remember  that  I  studied  or  at 
tended  many  lectures.  I  was  too  busy,  shooting 
or  fishing,  or  writing  for  the  Trigger. 

Also  there  existed  a  girls'  boarding-school  a 
mile  away. 


The  Crime.  269 

This  school  was  run  by  two  old  maids,  the 
Misses  Timmins.  It  was  the  Timmins  sisters' 
aim  in  life  to  prevent  the  members  of  their  school 
from  coming  into  contact  with  the  engineers  from 
Clovermead;  therefore  we  knew  them  all. 

The  means  of  communication  were  varied  and 
ingenious,  for  the  little  maidens  at  the  boarding- 
school  were  quite  as  enthusiastic  as  we  were.  We 
never  went  through  the  formality  of  an  introduc 
tion, — it  was  not  expected;  we  spoke  when  we 
had  the  chance,  and  thanked  fortune  for  the 
chance. 

There  was,  however,  one  weird  custom  laid 
down  by  the  boarding-school  maidens,  a  tradition 
which  had  existed  as  long  as  the  school;  and  this 
was  well  understood  by  the  Clovermead  Engi 
neers.  It  was  this  :  no  youth  could  expect  to 
spoon  with  any  Timmins  maiden  unless  he  first 
declared  his  intentions  by  serenading  her. 

We  were  not  all  blessed  with  a  high  order  of 
musical  ability, — I  played  a  harmonica, — but  we 
were  willing  to  try.  I  had  tried  several  times. 
The  results  were  very  sweet, — I  don't  mean  in  a 
musical  way. 

So  between  the  boarding-school  and  the  Trig 
ger  I  found  little  leisure,  and  the  less  leisure  I 
had  the  less  I  felt  inclined  to  occupy  it  with  engi 
neering  problems.  Besides,  there  was  the  big 
trout  to  think  of,  Mine  Enemy,  whom  I  had 
sworn  to  drag  from  the  depths  of  that  most  deli 
cious  of  streams,  the  Clovermead  River. 

During  these  three  years  while  I  persistently 


270  The  Crime. 

fished  for  Mine  Enemy  (and  goodness  knows  I 
had  never  before  beheld  so  lusty  a  trout !)  every 
fly  known  to  anglers,  and  many  flies  unknown  to 
anybody  but  myself,  I  tried  on  that  impassive 
fish. 

And  he  grew  fatter  and  fatter. 

I  remember  well  the  day  of  the  temptation.  I 
was  sitting  at  the  foot  of  the  big  oak  tree  that 
spreads  above  the  pool  where  Mine  Enemy  lurked. 
Wearied  with  casting,  I  had  sought  the  shadow  of 
the  oak  and  had  lighted  a  cigarette  to  change  my 
luck.  And  as  I  sat  on  the  cool  turf,  I  was  aware 
of  an  angle  worm,  travelling  along  at  my  feet  on 
business  of  its  own.  Scarcely  conscious  of  what  I 
did,  I  picked  up  a  twig  and  tossed  the  little  worm 
over  the  bank. 

Then,  in  a  moment,  I  was  sorry,  for  I  never 
willingly  bother  little  things.  I  watched  the 
worm  sinking  slowly  into  the  crystalline  depths  of 
the  pool. 

When  at  last  the  little  worm  struck  the  bottom 
I  suppose  it  was  both  astonished  and  indignant 
for  it  began  to  twist  and  turn  and  shoot  out  like  a 
telescope  over  the  gravelly  bottom. 

I  was  sorry,  as  I  say,  and  I  hoped  it  might 
make  its  way  to  the  bank  again  and  bore  into  it. 

Several  inquisitive  minnows,  half  as  long  as  the 
angle  worm,  gathered  around  it  staring  and  open 
ing  their  diminutive  mouths.  Then,  all  at  once, 
the  minnows  darted  away,  scattering  in  every 
direction,  and  a  huge  shadow  fell  upon  the  gravel, 


The  Crime.  271 

a  trout,  monstrous,  lazy,  slowly  gliding  out  from 
the  dark  bank  to  where  the  worm  wriggled, 
pushing  its  pink  head  among  the  pebbles. 

Very  deliberately  the  great  fish  opened  his 
mouth — not  very  wide — and  the  little  worm  was 
gone.  For  five  minutes  the  trout  lay  there,  and  I 
watched  him,  scarcely  daring  to  breathe.  After 
a  while  I  cautiously  reached  for  my  rod,  freed  the 
line  and  leader,  bent  a  little  forward,  and  cast 
over  the  fish.  lyightly  as  snowflakes  falling  on 
window  panes,  the  flies  drifted  onto  the  placid 
surface  of  the  pool.  The  trout  did  not  stir. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  temptation  overtook 
me;  my  sinful  eyes  roved  over  the  turf  where  the 
angle  worm  had  been,  and,  brethren,  forgive  me  ! 
—I  lusted  after  bait  !  ! 

' f  It  will  be  so  easy, ' '  whispered  the  tempter, 
' '  no  one  will  ever  know  ! ' ' 

"  Get  behind  me,  Satan,"  said  I. 

"  But  it's  so  easy, — and  the  big  trout  will 
never  touch  artificial  flies  ! ' ' 

' '  Avaunt  Apollyon  !  "  I  groaned  while  the 
sweat  stood  in  beads  on  my  eyebrows. 

So  I  overcame  the  devil,  and  went  away  to 
avoid  further  contention.  And  Heaven  rewarded 
me  with  the  sight  of  a  pretty  girl  playing  a  guitar 
at  her  window. 

She  was  so  pretty  that  the  fact  alone  was  reward 
enough,  but  Heaven  never  does  things  by  halves, 
Madame,  and  when  for  an  instant  I  paused  by  the 
brier  hedge  to  listen,  the  pretty  girl  gave  me  one 


272  The  Crime. 

of  those  swift,  provoking  sidelong  glances,  and 
then,  touching  her  guitar,  looked  innocently  up 
into  the  sky. 

And  this  is  what  she  sang  : 

"  Young  am  I,  and  yet  unskilled 
How  to  make  a  lover  yield  ; 
How  to  keep  and  how  to  gain, 
When  to  love  and  when  to  feign  !  " 

"  Take  me,  take  me  some  of  you 
While  I  yet  am  young  and  true  ; 
He  that  has  me  first  is  blest, 
For  I  may  deceive  the  rest." 

And  the  guitar  went  strum  !  turn-turn  !  strum  ! 
turn- turn  !  tinkle-tinkle-tinkle-^rww /  turn-turn! 

"The  little  innocent  thing,"  I  thought,  and 
looked  at  her  through  the  hedge. 

She  was  not  so  very  young;  she  might  have 
been  my  own  age.  She  was  sitting  in  one  of  the 
windows  of  the  dormitory  which  belonged  to 
the  Misses  Timmins'  Select  Boarding-school  for 
Young  Toadies  ! 

Evidently  the  Misses  Timmins  were  not  in  the 
immediate  neighbourhood. 

* '  Dear  little  innocent  thing, ' '  I  repeated  to 
myself. 

I  moved  slightly.  She  looked  at  me  with  that 
dreamy  confiding  look  that  stirs  the  pulses  of 
some  people.  I  am  one  of  those  people. 


The  Crime.  273 

1 '  She  is  lonely, ' '  said  I  to  myself,  ' '  it  is  the 
duty — nay,  the  precious  privilege  of  the  happy  to 
sympathize  with  the  lonely." 

There  was  a  bud  of  sweet-brier  beside  my  cheek. 
I  picked  it,  sniffed  it  pensively,  and  looked  at  the 
girl  in  the  window. 

She  looked  at  me,  glanced  down  at  her  guitar, 
thrummed  a  little,  sighed  a  little,  and  ate  a  bon 
bon. 

Ah,  that  sigh  ! — gentle,  troubling,  irresistible. 

"  She,"  thought  I  to  myself,  ''shall  be  my  god 
dess, — this  humble  dormitory  shall  be  my  temple, 
this  window  my  shrine  !  Hither  will  I  come  to 
worship  and  bring  burnt  offerings, — almonds  and 
bon-bons.  This  village  will  not  be  so  dull  after 
all,"  I  thought  to  myself. 

"  What  time,"  said  I,  speaking  very  gently,  for 
I  did  not  wish  to  disturb  the  Misses  Timmins  with 
my  rude  voice,  —  * '  what  time,  Mademoiselle, 
would  it  be  advisable  for  an  enamoured  lover  to 
serenade  the  delicious  object  of  his  adoration  ?  " 

* '  We  retire  at  half-past  nine,  fair  sir, ' '  said  the 
maiden  innocently. 

I  knew  I  was  not  mistaken.  The  poor  child  was 
lonely. 

"  Heavens!  "  said  I, — "driven  to  retire  at  half 
past  nine  !  Are — er — the — Misses  Timmins — er 
— fierce  ?  ' ' 

"  They  are  deaf,"  said  the  maiden,  with  a  child 
like  smile. 

"Ah, — unhappy  ladies  '     This  is   a  fine  old 

18 


274  The  Crime. 

building,  a  noble  facade.  Are  you  fond  of  archi 
tecture  ?  ' ' 

' '  My  window  is  the  one  I  am  sitting  in, ' '  said 
the  maid  with  simple  confidence,  ' '  I  could  let 
down  a  string  in  case  you  had  matters  of  grave 
import  or  state  despatches  to  communicate." 

"  Ahem  !  "  said  I,  "  have  you  a  string  there 
now?  " 

''Yes,  fair  sir." 

So  I  slid  through  the  hedge  and  stood  under 
her  window  holding  up  my  creel. 

"  I  have,"  said  I,  "  a  few  small  brook  trout 
here — nothing  to  boast  of — but  if  you  would  ac 
cept " 


' '  Indeed  you  are  too  kind- 


'  They  may  vary  the  monotony  of  prunes  and 
weak  tea  for  supper — 

' '  Fair  sir,  I  see  you  have  known  other  board 
ing-school  maidens  !  " 

' '  Foi  de  gentilhomme !  "  I  protested. 

1 '  Which  is  not  pronounced  the  way  we  pro 
nounce  French  here,"  she  said, — <(  let  me  see  the 
trout." 

I  opened  the  creel. 

"  I  will  accept,"  said  the  girl  graciously,  and 
let  down  a  string,  to  which  I  fastened  my  creel. 

' '  You  are  very  daring — how  do  you  know  that 
the  whole  school  are  not  watching  ?  ' ' 

"  Because,"  said  I,  "  this  is  the  afternoon  when 
the  whole  school  takes  a  solemn  ramble  into  the 
country." 


The  Crime.  275 

' '  I  am  not  rambling, ' '  she  said. 

"  All  do  not  ramble  on  days  of  recreation,"  I 
replied  significantly. 

' '  You  know  a  great  deal  about  this  boarding- 
school,  fair  sir.  I  suppose  you  also  know  I  am 
confined  to  my  room  as  a  disciplinary  precau 
tion." 

"  Monstrous  !  "  I  cried,  suppressing  my  satis 
faction. 

"  I  only  made  a  cider  cocktail,"  she  said. 

' '  Monstrous !  "  I  repeated,  ' '  cider  cocktails  are 
no  good." 

By  this  time  she  had  lowered  the  creel  to  me 
again  and  I  slung  it  on  my  shoulders  and  picked 
up  my  rod  from  the  lawn. 

"  I  will  bring  offerings,"  I  said,  "  do  you  like 
bon-bons,  gentle  maiden  ?  ' ' 

* '  Yes,  and  pickles, ' '  she  said  gravely. 

"And  music?" 

"  Sometimes — not  too  classical — 

'  *  I  will  serenade  you  !  "  I  cried  enthusiastically, 
— * '  you  say  the  Misses  Timmins  are  deaf  ?  ' ' 

"  Shame  on  you  !  you  know  they  are.  What 
do  you  play  ?  I  am  not  sure  that  I  will  accept  a 
serenade." 

"  The  banjo  and  the  harmonica — not  both  at 
once.  I  play  the  harmonica  best,  but  I  can't  sing 
to  it  at  the  same  time,  you  know.  Shall  I  come  ?  ' ' 

' '  Y — es.  Are  you  fond  of  pickled  peaches  ?  I 
can  let  some  down  to  you. ' ' 

I  was  on  the  point  of  accepting  a  pickled  peach, 


276  The  Crime. 

— I  would  have  accepted  a  pickled  turnip  from 
her, — when,  out  of  the  tail  of  my  eye,  I  saw  the 
tops  of  multi-coloured  sunshades  appearing  above 
the  crest  of  the  hill,  and  I  knew  that  the  Misses 
Timmins  were  returning  with  their  flock. 

"  You  must  go  !  "  she  whispered  hurriedly, — 
"  go  quickly  !  " 

"Good-bye, — good-night,"  I  said,  "you  are 
the  loveliest,  sweetest ' ' 

"  Quick,— what?  " 

"  Angel, — divine,  glorious, — er " 

"Oh,  hasten  !     What?" 

"And  I  love  you  !" 

"You  must  n't  say  that; — must  you?  Oh, 
hurry  and  say  it  again — if  you  must ' ' 

"Oh,  I  must  !  "  I  cried,  heedless  of  all  the 
Timminses  on  earth,  ' '  I  really  must ' ' 

"  My  name  is  May  Thorne — go  quickly  now." 

1 '  Mine  is  Harry  Stenhouse — the  deuce !  they  're 
at  the  gate  !" 

They  were. 

Scarcely  had  I  slipped  around  the  building  be 
fore  I  heard  the  chatter  and  laughter  of  girls  and 
the  patter  of  feet  on  the  gravel  walk.  I  had 
heard  it  before  under  similar  circumstances.  But 
there  was  a  back  gate;  and  I  went.  Now  see  how 
virtue  is  its  own  reward !  I  had  resisted  the  devil 
and — he  gave  me  another  chance. 


II. 


"  \  7ES,"  said  I  to  myself,  remembering  how 
I  had  piously  ascribed  my  reward  to 
Heaven, — "  yes,  I  was  mistaken.  I 

should  have  said  :    '  The  devil,   Madame,  never 

does  things  by  halves. '  ' ' 

I  looked  back  at  the  dormitory  door.     One  of 
the  Misses  Timmins  was  snipping  roses  from  the 
porch  trellis. 

II  To   eke   out   the  meagre  evening  meal,"   I 
thought ;    ' '  poor   little   maid — poor  little  May  ! 
Only  nanny-goats  eat  roses,  and  an  empty  stom 
ach  rejoiceth  not  in  perfumes." 

This  sounded  to  me  like  an  Eastern  proverb. 
It  smacked  well,  and  I  repeated  it  to  myself  lux 
uriously. 

11  Some  day,"  thought  I,  "  when  I  am  famous, 
and  people  begin  to  write  books  to  prove  that  I  'm 
not,  I  '11  marry  May, — if  I  like  her  as  well  as  I  do 
now — and  she  likes  me, — ahem  !  "  I  'd  forgotten 
that  part. 

"  There  is  something  about  this  little  maid,"  I 
mused,  ' '  that  touches  my  better  nature ;  some 
thing  too  subtle  to  analyze,  and  anyway,  I  'm  not 
277 


278  The  Crime. 

good  at  that  sort  of  analysis.  She  is  fond  of  eat 
ing  trout,  I  'm  fond  of  catching  them.  Clearly 
we  were  designed  for  each  other, — if  only  for  an 
hour  or  so." 

By  this  time  I  had  reached  my  own  gate,  and 
stood  pensively  regarding  a  pair  of  tiny  chipping 
birds  that  were  absorbed  in  the  excitement  of  a 
violent  Spring  courtship. 

' '  Certainly, ' '  said  I  to  myself,  ' '  I  am  infatu 
ated,  and  I  'm  proud  of  it.  Any  man  would  be — 
any  man  whose  mind  was  not  all  mouse-coloured 
and  neutral." 

In  the  mellow  evening  light  the  pools  of  rain 
water  glimmered  like  sheets  of  gold.  Two  swal 
lows  sat  on  a  telegraph  wire  twittering  to  each 
other  of  the  coming  summer,  two  migrating  blue- 
jays  stopped  in  the  apple  tree  by  the  porch  to 
chatter  scandal.  A  pair  of  belated  white  butter 
flies  fluttered  sleepily  about  the  lower  branches  of 
the  lilac  bushes. 

"They  're  probably  married  also,"  thought  I, 
' '  and  now  they  '  re  going  home  to  bed.  Every 
thing  that  runs  or  flies  or  hops  seems  to  be  mated 
— except  me.  True,  I  don't  fly — unless  from  the 
Misses  Timmins. ' ' 

I  opened  my  creel  and  looked  moodily  into  it. 
Fishing,  after  all,  was  cold  comfort  compared  to 
stealing  an  interview  with  a  winsome  maid  who 
ate  bon-bons  to  guitar  accompaniment. 

' '  May, ' '  said  I  to  myself,  softly,  ' '  May, — might, 
— May  makes  might  and  might  makes  right — 


The  Crime.  279 

pshaw  !  I  '11  not  go  bothering  my  conscience 
with  every  little  incident  that  comes  up. ' '  I  had 
some  consideration  for  my  conscience  ;  I  knew 
how  tired  it  was. 

The  rain  water  in  the  long  road  ruts  glimmered 
with  a  deeper  orange  light.  A  bat  fluttered  around 
the  darkening  foliage  of  the  maples  ;  a  cricket 
creaked  from  door-sill. 

"  The  bat,"  thought  I,  "is  looking  for  a  little 
lady-bat;  the  cricket  is  serenading;  I  think  that 
I  '11  follow  their  example.  I  wish  I  could  play 
on  my  harmonica  and  sing  at  the  same  time. ' ' 

About  ten  o'clock  that  night,  the  moon  being 
well  up,  I  went  out  onto  the  porch  and  looked  at 
it  until  I  felt  sufficiently  sentimental  to  sit  on  the 
damp  grass  under  May's  window  and  make  music 
as  I  understood  it.  So  I  took  my  banjo  under  my 
arm,  dropped  my  harmonica  into  my  coat  pocket, 
and  tip-toed  off  down  the  road  as  many  a  better 
man  had  done  before  me,  and  would  continue  to 
do  as  long  as  that  boarding-school  existed. 

O  delicious  night  in  early  Spring  !  Inured  by 
the  balm  in  the  soft  night  winds,  all  the  little  field 
creatures  had  come  out  of  their  holes  in  meadow 
and  pasture,  in  orchard  and  thicket,  and  were 
scraping  away  on  monotonous  shrill  melodies,  ac 
centuated  by  the  treble  of  hundreds  of  tree  toads. 

In  every  shadowy  orchard  Katydids  performed 
countless  encores  to  the  bass  ' '  bravos  !  "  of  the 
great  bull-frogs  along  the  mill-brook's  reedy 
banks.  All  living  things  did  their  part  to  cele- 


280  The  Crime. 

brate  the  coming  Summer,  even  a  distant  skunk 
added  his  mite  to  the  spicy  night.  Personally  I 
preferred  the  roadside  lilacs,  but  it  's  all  a  matter 
of  taste,  and  George  the  Fourth  liked  his  oysters 
over-ripe. 

1  'If  these  bull-frogs,"  thought  I,  "keep  up 
their  sonorous  tom-toms,  it  will  ruin  my  serenade 
— I  know  it,  from  experience. ' ' 

By  this  time  I  had  reached  the  dormitory 
hedge. 

"  A  brassy  cornet  would  be  lost  in  this  hub 
bub,"  I  mused  bitterly,  looking  up  at  the  third 
window  on  the  second  floor. 

I  thumbed  the  bass  string  of  my  banjo  doubt 
fully,  paused,  cleared  my  throat,  included  frogs, 
toads,  katydids,  and  crickets  in  one  general 
and  comprehensive  anathema,  and  sang  this  re 
hashed  song : 

"  Ye  little  loves  that  round  her  wait 
To  bring  me  tidings  of  my  fate, 
As  May  upon  her  pillow  lies, 
Ah  !  gently  whisper — Harry  dies." 

"  If  this  will  not  her  pity  move, 
And  the  proud  fair  disdains  to  love, 
Smile  and  say  't  is  all  a  lie, 
And  haughty  Henry  scorns  to  die  !  " 

"  Bother  take  it,"  I  muttered,  "I  shouldn't 
have  sung  that  last  verse — it  may  offend  her. 
That  's  the  trouble  about  those  old  songs;  you 


The  Crime.  281 

never  can  tell  what  you  're  singing  until  you  've 
put  your  foot  in  it. " 

This  mixed  metaphor  was  probably  due  to  the 
confusion  in  my  mind,  for  what  with  the  frogs  and 
a  lurking  fear  of  the  Misses  Timmins,  I  was  not 
as  cool  as  I  might  have  been. 

While  I  was  singing,  two  or  three  windows 
were  softly  raised,  and  now  more  were  being 
raised,  and  I  caught  glimpses  of  shadowy  white- 
draped  figures  leaning  from  sills  or  dodging  be 
hind  curtains. 

And  now  her  window  opened  softly;  I  saw  a 
shape  between  the  curtains  and  the  sweet  notes  of 
a  guitar  came  throbbing  out  into  the  night. 

' '  Miss  Thorne, ' '  I  whispered,  ' '  ask  those 
young  ladies  to  go  in,  please.  They  always  come 
and  bother." 

Some  of  them  took  the  hint.  I  did  not  care  for 
the  rest,  for  time  was  precious,  and  I  feared  the 
Timmins  !  So  I  told  Miss  Thorne  in  a  hollow, 
passionate  whisper  that  it  was  out  of  the  question 
for  me  to  try  to  live  without  her, — and  a  few  other 
facts  calculated  to  melt  solid  rocks  into  tears. 
But  when  I  desired  to  be  informed  concerning  her 
constancy,  she  interrupted  me. 

' '  What  was  that  last  verse  you  sang  ?  ' '  she 
asked. 

"  Oh,  that  was  only  one  of  those  old  songs,  you 
know;  I  did  n't  intend — 

"  One  of  those  old  songs  ?  Very  well.  Listen 
to  this  one  then,  and  be  assured  of  my  constancy." 


282  The  Crime. 

"  The  time  that  is  to  come,  is  not ; 
How  then  can  it  be  mine  ? 
The  present  moment  's  all  my  lot, 
And  that,  as  fast  as  it  is  got, 
Harry,  is  only  thine  ! 

"  Then  talk  not  of  inconstancy, 
False  hearts  and  broken  vows ; 
If  I,  by  miracle,  can  be 
This  live-long  minute  true  to  thee, 
'T  is  all  that  Heaven  allows." 


It  was  a  pretty  revenge  for  my  parrot-like  repe 
tition  of  a  verse  that  was  out  of  place,  but  when, 
from  a  neighbouring  window,  another  voice  cried 
'  *  Brava  May !  serves  him  right  !  "  I  was  annoyed 
and  protested  in  hoarse  whispers. 

Then  all  those  little  maids  began  to  make  fun 
of  me.  I  thought  I  could  distinguish  May's  sil 
very  mocking  laughter,  and,  hurt  and  angry,  I 
shook  the  dew  of  the  lawn  from  my  shoes,  and 
went  away,  nursing  my  wrath  and  my  hurt  pride. 

"That  's  what  one  gets,"  I  mused,  "that  's 
what  a  man  gets  by  meddling  with  things  that 
don't  concern  him !  I  was  an  ass  to  make  eyes  at 
her.  I  was  doubly  an  ass  to  think  that  she  would 
care  for  good  music — I  was  a  triple  ass  to  sing 
that  idiotic  old  song.  It  was  a  too-cock-sure-in 
dependent — well  don't-if-you-don't-want-to!  sort 
of  song,  and  women  don't  like  that.  Women  are 
all  alike — it  is  only  circumstances  that  change 
them.  I  wish  I  had  sense  enough  to  let  'em 


The  Crime.  283 

alone  !     The  confounded  song  hurt  her  vanity — 
that  's  what  's  the  matter  !  " 

I  sat  down  on  a  flat  rock  by  the  roadside  and 
blew  a  dismal  strain  from  my  harmonica.  It  com 
forted  me  a  little,  so  I  played  "  Sir  Daniel  O'Don- 
nel  "  and  "  Casey's  L,ament." 

The  weird  strains  of  the  latter  wrung  howls 
from  a  dog  in  a  stable  near  by,  so  I  changed  to  a 
pleasanter  air  to  save  his  feelings.  But  my  heart 
was  heavy;  I  eyed  the  moon  furtively  and  moped. 

' '  Those  feather-headed  girls  always  come  and 
listen  every  time  a  fellow  tries  to  do  a  little  woo 
ing  on  his  own  account, ' '  I  muttered ;  ' '  Barclay 
had  the  same  experience,  so  did  Kendall  and  Gor 
don.  I  '11  be  hanged  if  I  repeat  this  fiasco — it  's 
cursedly  silly,  anyway,  and  I  don't  care  whether 
it's  customary  and  traditional.  I  '11  not  play  cir 
cus  for  any  woman  on  earth  !  " 

I  wiped  my  harmonica  on  my  handkerchief  and 
played  "  Bannigan's  Barracks"  in  a  minor  key. 
The  dog  in  the  stable  howled  intermittently. 

I  could  see  the  dark  mass  of  the  dormitory  out 
of  the  corner  of  my  eye.  A  candle  flickered  be 
hind  one  of  the  windows,  I  could  not  tell  which, 
from  where  I  was  sitting. 

And,  as  I  eyed  it  askance,  tooting  resignedly 
the  while,  I  saw  somebody  appear  at  the  great 
gate,  open  it,  and  move  swiftly  out  and  up  the 
moonlit  road  toward  me. 

' c  Some  of  those  girls  have  told  a  Timmins,  and 
she  's  coming  to  do  me  !"  I  thought.  "  I  don't 


284  The  Crime. 

care.  Miss  Thorne  made  me  ridiculous,  and  I  '11 
not  see  her  again,  and  I  'm  on  the  public  high 
way  !  L,et  the  Misses  Timmins  advance  ! ' ' 

So  I  struck  up  a  lively  quickstep  on  my  har 
monica,  and  blinked  innocently  at  the  moon. 
The  figure  was  close  to  me  now,  I  saw  it,  but 
I  tootled  away,  regardless. 

"Mr.  Stenhouse  !  " 

I  tuined  slowly. 

* '  Oh,  I  know  it  is  terribly  imprudent,  and  if 
I  'm  caught  I  '11  be  sent  home,  but  I  heard  your 
harmonica  —  oh,  such  dismal  strains  !  —  and  I 
thought  if  only  I  could  see  you  for  a  second  to  tell 
you  that  it  was  not  I  that  laughed,  for  I  think 
your  serenade  was  —  was  perfectly  charming  — 
there  !  " 

We  were  standing  face  to  face  in  the  moonlight. 

At  last  I  said :  ' '  I  was  a  fool  to  sing  that  song ; 
I  'm  sorry,  Miss  Thorne." 

' '  Oh,  it  was  not  the  song  as  much  as  it  was 
that  you  said — you  gave  me  to  understand  quite 
frankly  that  you  had — had  been  to  the  school  be 
fore.  You  said  '  the  girls  always  bothered '  ' 

"Did  I  say  that?." 

"  Yes, — it  was  most  humiliating  for — for  me." 

"  Oh,  I  'm  a  perfect  idiot,"  I  admitted. 

She  looked  down  at  her  slippers — they  had  been 
hurriedly  and  carelessly  tied — and  I  noticed  it 
and  knelt  to  repair  the  oversight. 

"  I  was  in  such  haste,"  she  said.  "  Is  it  true 
that  you  have  serenaded  the  dormitory  before  ?  ' ' 

"  Not  the  dormitory " 


The  Crime.  285 

"  You  know  what  I  mean;  have  you  ?" 

"  All  the  fellows  do,"  I  said,  vaguely. 

She  tapped  her  foot  on  the  gravel. 

' '  Those  strings  are  sufficiently  tied, ' '  she  said, 
1 '  tell  me  whom  you  serenaded  ?  ' ' 

"  I  can't  do  that,  Miss  Thorne." 

' '  Why  ?     Then  tell  me  when  it  was. '  * 

' '  When  ?  Oh,  last  year,  before  I  ever  imag 
ined  such  a  girl  as  you  existed.  It  's  a  silly  cus 
tom,  anyway 

"  It  is  n't, — it  's  charming — when  the  man  has 
any  tact.  It  's  the  tradition  of  the  school  that  no 
girl  shall  spoon  with  a  man  who  has  n't  serenaded 
her,  and  I  do  not  expect  to  break  the  traditions  of 
my  school — 

"  Only  the  rules,  Miss  Thorne  ?  " 

' '  Only  the  rules — and  a  heart  or  two  ! ' ' 

"  Or  two  !" 

' '  Faith,  sir, ' '  she  said  maliciously,  ' '  did  you 
think  you  were  the  only  one  ? ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "I  did." 

' '  And  you  tell  me  deliberately  that  you  had 
serenaded  other  girls  there  before  I  came — I  don't 
know  how  many,  perhaps  a  dozen,  twenty,  fifty, 
the  whole'  school  !  ' ' 

"What  !  "  I  cried,  bewildered. 

"Oh,  I  don't  care,"  she  said,  "I  only  wished 
to  show  you  what  men  are  and  what  their  selfish 
ness  requires  of  women, — to  sacrifice  everything 
while  they  sacrifice  nothing. ' ' 

"  And  you  don't  care  ?  "  I  asked. 

"No,  Mr.  Stenhouse." 


286  The  Crime. 

1 '  Then  why  did  you  risk  everything  to  come 
and  tell  me?" 

' '  W — what  ?  ' '  she  stammered. 

' '  Miss  Thorne, ' '  said  I,  very  gravely,  ' '  your 
school  is  noted  for  its  escapades.  It  is  known  in 
the  village,  not  as  the  '  Misses  Timmins's  Select 
Boarding-School  for  Young  L,adies, '  but  as  '  The 
Devil' s  Own. '  We  engineer  students  are  a  reckless 
lot,  also.  We  are,  to  put  it  plainly,  a  godless  crew, 
but  this — this  is  somehow  different.  I  am  begin 
ning  to  believe  that  our  thoughtless  folly — yours 
and  mine,  may  leave  one  of  us  miserable  for  life. ' ' 

"Me?" 

"  Who  knows  ?  I  can  only  speak  for  myself, — 
I — I  have  changed  already, — yes,  in  these  few  mo 
ments  that  we  stood  here  face  to  face — 

1 '  What  do  you  mean  ?  ' '  she  said  mockingly. 

( '  I  mean  that  in  another  minute  I  shall  love 
you — in  another  second  !  ' ' 

' '  Are  you  serious  ? ' '  she  demanded  incredu 
lously.  Then,  "Oh,  I  thought  you  jolly  and 
clever,  and  you  prove  to  be  soft  and  silly  !  Mas 
ter  Harry,  you  bore  me  ! ' ' 

"Do  I?"  I  answered  angrily.  "Well,  I'll 
never  do  it  again,  and  I  was  a  fool  to  believe  you 
would  understand  anything  but  chocolate-creams 
and  dormitory  flirting  !  " 

"  Not  only  soft  and  silly,  but  a  boor,"  she  said. 
"Good-night.  No,  you  need  not  walk  to  the 
gate  with  me — I  never  wish  to  set  eyes  on  you 
again." 


III. 


ON  the  first  day  of  June  I  passed  my  final 
examinations  at  the  great   Engineering 
School    at    Clovermead,   and   was    then 
ready  to  let  myself  loose  on  the  mining  regions  of 
a  deluded  world. 

The  commencement  exercises  bored  me ;  I  went 
fishing  most  of  the  time,  or  else  stayed  in  my 
rooms  writing  ' '  Dry  Fly  Casting  as  a  Fine  Art ' ' 
for  the  Trigger.  In  the  long  fragrant  evenings  I 
took  lonely  walks  by  the  river  or  sat  under  the 
oak  playing  minor  airs  on  my  harmonica. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  week  in  June  the  com 
mencement  exercises  were  over,  the  visiting 
hordes  from  New  York  and  Boston  had  flitted 
away  to  Newport  or  Bar  Harbor,  the  Government 
officers  went  back  to  Washington  and  West  Point, 
and  the  little  village  of  Clovermead  lay  in  the 
sunshine,  white,  sweet-scented,  deserted. 

The  Misses  Timmins's  "  Select  Boarding-School 
for  Young  Indies  ' '  had  its  commencement — a 
rainbow  affair — and  dissolved,  leaving,  as  residue, 
an  empty  school-house  and  a  dormitory  dedicated 
to  silence. 

287 


288  The  Crime. 

I  did  n't  go  to  their  commencement,  not  because 
I  was  not  invited,  for  most  of  the  fellows  went 
anyway.  No,  since  my  last  serenade,  I  had 
shunned  the  school  and  all  it  works. 

It  was  true  that  I  lingered  in  the  village  of 
Clovermead  after  my  fellow-students  had  departed, 
not,  as  I  frequently  explained  to  myself,  to  catch 
a  last  glimpse  of  Miss  Thorne,  but  to  catch  that 
veteran  trout  in  the  Clovermead  River.  ' '  I  shall 
never  see  Miss  Thorne  again, ' '  I  said  to  myself, 
1 '  and  I  'm  glad  of  it." 

So  on  the  day  of  her  commencement  I  went 
fishing,  very  far  off  and  I  passed  a  miserable  day. 
It  rained,  among  other  things. 

The  next  morning  the  sun  shone  in  at  my  win 
dow  and  I  looked  out  into  the  village  with  a 
strange  weight  at  my  heart.  I  did  not  feel  hun 
gry,  but  went  to  breakfast,  determined  to  let 
nothing  disturb  me  or  my  appetite.  As  I  touched 
the  sugar-tongs  to  the  sugar,  a  faint  whistle  came 
on  the  June  wind  from  the  distant  railroad 
station. 

"  There  go  the  young  ladies  from  the  boarding- 
school,  ' '  said  my  landlady ;  '  *  do  take  one  of  these 
shirred  eggs,  Mr.  Stenhouse." 

"Thank  you,"  said  I,  with  a  queer  sensation 
in  my  throat. 

'  *  May  has  gone, ' '  I  was  thinking.  After  a 
while  I  said  aloud  :  ' '  what  of  it  !  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  my  landlady,  smil 
ing. 


The  Crime.  289 

' '  I  beg  yours — it  was  nothing  ;  I  was  only 
thinking  that  I  was  alone  in  the  village. ' ' 

' '  I  hope  you  will  stay, ' '  she  said,  fingering  the 
black-edged  handkerchief  in  her  lap. 

' '  You  are  very  good, ' '  I  replied ;  "I  shall  stay 
until  I  catch  that  big  trout  in  the  river. ' ' 

: '  Then  poor  luck  to  you  !  ' '  smiled  the  kindly 
old  lady,  ' '  what  time  will  you  have  your  dinner, 
Mr.  Stenhouse?" 

I  went  back  to  my  room  and  sat  down  by  the 
window.  A  flowering  branch  of  late  apple  blos 
soms  scraped  across  the  sash  as  I  threw  it  open 
and  leaned  out. 

For  a  long  while  I  listened  to  the  droning  of 
bees  among  the  half-opened  buds,  thinking  that 
the  warmth  had  fled  from  the  sunshine  and  the 
scent  was  gone  from  mead  and  sedge. 

And  ' '  why  ?  "  I  repeated  to  myself  again  and 
again,  until  a  sullen  anger  seized  me  and  I 
tramped  up  and  down  my  room,  my  hands  buried 
in  the  canvas  pockets  of  my  shooting  coat. 

"  Now,"  said  I  to  myself,  "  this  is  d d  fool 
ishness.  I  '11  just  go  and  try  for  that  trout,  and 
I  '11  catch  him  too,"  I  added,  gritting  my  teeth 
to  dull  the  pain  in  my  heart, — "  I  '11  catch  him  by 
fair  means  or  foul, — yes,  by  jingo  !  I  '11  use  a 
worm  !  ' '  No,  I  felt  no  horror  for  the  deed  I  was 
about  to  commit.  All  that  was  base  and  depraved 
in  my  nature  had  risen  with  my  better  feelings  to 
combat  a  depression,  a  sorrow,  that  was  so  sud 
den,  so  deep,  that  I  hardly  understood  it. 


290  The  Crime. 

Under  such  circumstances  the  truly  good  come 
out  strong, — in  novels  ;  others  do  something 
wrong  to  occupy  their  minds.  Wallowing  dulls 
the  capability  of  suffering, — for  a  time.  It  is 
much  practised  by  weak  and  strong,  contemporary 
fiction  to  the  contrary. 

So  it  happened  one  day  in  early  June,  when  the 
sky  was  china  blue  and  filmy  clouds  trailed  like 
lace  across  the  disk  of  a  pale  sun,  that  I,  Henry 
Stenhouse,  well  and  sound  in  mind  and  body, 
decided  to  commit  a  crime. 

I  started  down  the  road,  swinging  my  creel 
over  my  shoulder  and  whistling,  buoyed  up  by 
that  false  exhilaration  which  always  took  posses 
sion  of  me  when  I  felt  myself  on  good  terms  with 
the  devil.  In  my  pocket  nestled  my  luncheon,  a 
vSmall  flask  of  Bordeaux,  fly-book,  harmonica, 
reel,  and  a  tin  bait  box. 

Imagine  what  it  costs  me  to  write  this  ! 

Well  it  's  written, — and  on  I  went,  whistling 
"Sir  Daniel  O'Donnel,"  as  though  I  had  not  a 
care  in  the  world  and  love  was  but  an  old  wive's 
tale. 

Yet,  whistle  as  I  would,  I  could  not  close  my 
eyes  to  the  caustic  criticism  of  the  sunny  world 
on  my  solitary  condition.  Robins  hopped  about 
the  pastures  in  pairs,  blue-birds  flew  from  sapling 
to  fence,  in  pairs,  yellow  butterflies  whirled  over 
the  clover  in  dozens  and  dozens  of  pairs,  and  the 
very  trees,  the  silver  birches,  the  maples  and 
elms,  all  seemed  to  grow  in  pairs.  Two  by  two 


The  Crime.  291 

I  counted  oak  and  beach,  nestling  in  each  others 
shadows,  two  by  two  the  twinkling  silver  aspens 
seemed  to  wink  at  me  with  every  leaf. 

I  alone  was  alone. 

' '  Because, ' '  said  I  to  myself,  ' '  I  Ve  got 
brains  "  ;  but  the  boast  fell  only  on  the  idle  un 
believing  ears  of  the  corn,  too  young  to  under 
stand  or  sympathize. 

A  great  tenderness  was  in  my  heart,  but  I 
crushed  it  out,  and  turned  into  the  fields,  treading 
my  way  through  rustling  corn  where  June  breezes 
lingered,  whispering. 

When  I  struck  the  hazel  patch  I  felt  better, 
and  I  whistled  "  Sir  Daniel  O'Donnel  "  again. 

A  wood-thrush,  striving  to  imitate  me,  produced 
an  unconscious  masterpiece  ;  a  cat-bird  mewed 
unceasingly  from  the  deeper  growth.  Both  had 
mates. 

I  took  the  hidden  path  through  the  beech- 
woods  until  I  came  to  a  big  pine.  Here,  follow 
ing  a  trail,  known  to  myself,  I  entered  the  denser 
woods,  crossed  the  two  spring  brooks  that  feed 
the  river,  and  after  a  few  minutes  rapid  walking 
came  to  the  oak  which  spreads  above  the  limpid 
silvery  pool,  the  abode  of  Mine  Bnemy. 

' '  As  long  as  I  have  sunk  to  the  level  of  a  pot 
hunter,"  said  I,  treading  softly  over  the  moss,  "  I 
might  as  well  do  the  thing  thoroughly. ' ' 

Very  cautiously  I  produced  an  angle- worm  from 
my  box,  baited  my  hook,  cast  the  infernal  machine 
into  the  pool,  and  then,  placing  my  rod  on  the 


29 2  The  Crime. 

bank,  put  a  flat  stone  on  the  butt  and  sat  down  to 
smoke.  When  I  had  finished  my  cigarette  I  lay 
down,  stretching  out  on  the  moss  under  the  oak. 
tree. 

And  as  I  sprawled  on  my  back  looking  sky 
ward,  I  was  aware  of  a  pair  of  stockings, — black 
stockings, — hanging  from  a  limb  directly  over  my 
head. 

Astonished  and  indignant  I  lay  perfectly  still, 
staring  at  the  stockings.  They  had  been  wet  but 
now  were  rapidly  drying,  swinging  gently  in  the 
warm  June  wind. 

' '  This  is  pleasant  !  "  I  thought ;  ' '  some  credu 
lous  country  wench  has  taken  my  pool  for  a  foot 
bath.  I  '11  not  put  up  with  it,  by  jingo  !  Have 
fishermen  no  rights  ?  Is  this  a  picnic  ground  ? 
Is  that  river  a  resort  for  barefooted  giggling 
girls?" 

If  there  were  any  people  splashing  and  paddling 
about  among  the  stones  down  the  river,  I  knew 
that  every  trout  within  range  would  be  paralyzed 
with  fright.  I  sat  up  and  tried  to  see  through  the 
foliage  which  bordered  the  shallow  river  where  it 
curved  into  the  woods. 

"  They  're  down  there,"  I  muttered,  "  and  I 
bet  they  've  done  the  business  for  every  trout  be 
tween  here  and  the  falls.  Idiots  ! ' ' 

I  looked  up  at  the  stockings.  They  were  cer 
tainly  silk,  I  could  see  that.  The  sun  bronzed 
the  pointed  toes,  now  almost  dry.  And  while  I 
looked  there  came  a  faint  sound  of  splashing  close 


The  Crime.  293 

by,  just  where  the  river  narrows  to  curve  into  the 
woods.  Something  bright  was  glistening  down 
there  between  the  branches,  something  white  that 
moved  slowly  up  stream,  nearer  and  nearer,  now 
plainly  in  view  through  the  leaves. 

It  was  a  young  woman  in  a  light  summer  gown 
with  a  big  straw  hat  on  her  head,  and  she  was 
slowly  and  deliberately  wading  through  the  shal 
low  water  toward  my  pool. 

She  seemed  to  be  enjoying  it  ;  the  swift  water 
rippled  around  her  ankles  dashing  her  skirts  with 
spray,  as  she  lifted  her  wet  pink  feet  carefully 
over  the  sharp  rocks  and  deeper  channels.  Her 
skirt,  gathered  naively  in  both  hands,  fluttered 
perhaps  a  trifle  higher  than  it  might  have  done 
under  other  circumstances.  It  was  a  pretty  inno 
cent  picture,  but  it  was  out  of  place  in  my  trout 
pool,  and  I  stood  up,  determined  to  expostulate. 
After  a  second  I  sat  down  again,  somewhat 
suddenly.  The  black  stockings  waved  triumph 
antly  above  my  head.  I  looked  at  them,  bewil 
dered,  utterly  upset.  The  young  lady  in  the 
water  was  Miss  Thorne. 

Before  I  could  decide  what  to  do,  she  came  in 
sight  around  the  trees,  stepping  daintily  over  the 
sandy  shallows.  I  dared  not  move.  She  did  not 
look  up. 

"  What  the  mischief  shall  I  do  ?  "  I  thought, 
keeping  very  still  so  that  no  movement  should 
attract  her  eyes  to  the  oak  on  the  bank  above.  I 
could  not  retreat  and  leave  my  rod,  I  dared  not 


294  The  Crime. 

creep  to  the  pool  to  recover  it.  Besides,  I  did  n't 
want  to  go  away. 

She  had  sat  down  on  a  sunny  rock,  just  below 
me,  and  was  stirring  the  sandy  bottom  with  her 
little  toes.  It  was,  as  I  said,  a  pretty  picture, 
sweet  and  innocent,  but  utterly  fatal  to  my  peace 
of  mind.  I  wondered  what  she  'd  do  next,  and 
lay  silent,  scarcely  breathing. 

"  If  she  turns  her  back,"  I  thought,  "  I  '11  get 
up  and  go.  I  'm  no  eavesdropper,  and  I  '11  go, — 
only  I  hope  she  won't  give  me  the  chance." 

She  had  drawn  a  book  from  the  folds  of  her 
skirt,  and,  as  I  lay  there  without  sound  or  mo 
tion,  she  began  to  read,  repeating  aloud  to  herself 
the  passages  that  pleased  her. 

"  I  am  the  magic  waterfall 

Whose  waters  leap  from  fathomless  and  living  springs, 
Far  in  the  mist-hung  silence  of  the  Past." 

She  paused,  turning  the  leaves  with  languid 
capriciousness,  then  : 

"  I  fill  the  woods  with  songs ;  the  trees, 
Through  whose  twigs  flow  prophecies, 
I  deck  with  vestments  green." 

And  again  she  read  : 

"  The  shower  has  freshened  the  song  of  the  bird 
And  budded  the  bushes 
And  gilded  the  maple   and   tasselled  the  linden   and 

willow, 
Staining  with  green  the  forest-fringed  path." 


The  Crime.  295 

She  sat  silent,  idly  touching  the  fluttering  pages. 
Then  she  raised  her  head,  singing  softly  odd  bits 
of  songs  to  herself — to  the  thrushes  around  her. 

A  great  belted  kingfisher  flashed  past,  a  blurr 
of  blue  and  white  against  the  trees.  His  loud 
harsh  rattle  startled  her  for  an  instant. 

And,  as  she  turned  to  watch  his  flight  along  the 
winding  stream,  I  rose  and  slipped  noiselessly 
into  the  forest.  Before  I  had  taken  a  dozen  steps, 
however,  I  remembered  my  rod,  and  halted  irreso 
lutely.  Looking  back  through  the  thicket  fringe, 
I  saw  that  she  had  turned  my  way  again,  and  it 
was  out  of  the  question  to  recover  it  without 
being  seen. 

' '  If  she  only  had  her  stockings  on, ' '  I  sighed. 

Should  I  wait,  taking  discreet  observations 
occasionally  ?  Should  I  go  and  let  the  rod  take 
care  of  itself  ?  Suppose  the  big  trout  should  seize 
hold  and  drag  it  into  the  river  ?  Suppose  Miss 
Thorne  should  step  on  the  barbed  hook  with  her 
bare  little  feet  !  At  the  thought  I  turned  hastily 
back  in  my  own  tracks,  halted  again,  started  on, 
wavered,  took  one  irresolute  step,  and  stopped. 

I  could  see  her  now  quite  plainly  without  being 
seen.  She  had  tossed  her  book  up  on  the  moss, 
and  was  picking  her  way  along  the  ascending 
bank,  holding  on  to  branch  and  root. 

"  She  's  coming  for  her  stockings,  that  's  what 
she  's  doing,"  I  thought. 

Until  she  had  safely  passed  the  pool  where  the 
hook  lay,  I  kept  my  eyes  on  her.  After  that  I 


296  The  Crime. 

waited  until  I  saw  her  reach  up  to  the  oak-limb 
for  the  stockings  ;  then  I  looked  the  other  way. 

I  gave  her  ten  minutes  to  complete  her  toilet, 
holding  my  watch  in  my  hand. 

Once  she  sang  pensively  that  puzzling  but 
pathetic  old  ballad  : 

"  '  Mother,  may  I  go  out  to  swim  ?  • 
'  Yes,  my  darling  daughter, — 
Hang  your  hose  on  a  hickory  limb, 
But  don't  go  near  the  water.'  " 

The  ten  minutes  were  up  at  last.  ' '  Now, ' '  said 
I  to  myself,  ' '  shall  I  look  ?  No — yes — no  indeed ! 
— I  don't  know, — I  '11  just  see  whether " 

I  turned  around. 

She  had  left  the  shelter  of  the  oak  and  was 
hurrying  down  the  bank  toward  my  rod,  with 
every  appearance  of  excitement. 

"  I  '11  bet  there  's  a  fish  on  it,"  said  I  to  my 
self  ;  ' '  by  jingo  !  there  is ! — and  it 's  bending  and 
tugging  as  if  a  porpoise  had  the  line  !  It  '11  be 
into  the  river  in  a  moment  !  There  !  It  's 
gone  ! ' ' 

But  I  was  mistaken,  for  Miss  Thorne  grasped  it 
just  as  it  slid  over  the  edge  of  the  bank. 

"  She  '11  break  it  !  I  '11  bet  it  's  my  big  fish  ! 
There  !  She  's  pulling  the  fish  out — she 's  trying 
to  drag  the  fish  up  !  I  can't  stand  this  !  It 's  no 
use — I  've  got  to  go." 

When  she  saw  me  hastening  down  the  slope 
she  did  not  cry  out,  neither  did  she  drop  the  rod, 


The  Crime.  297 

but  her  blue  eyes  grew  very  large  and  round. 
And  as  I  hurried  up  she  gave  one  last  convulsive 
tug  and  hauled  up,  over,  and  on  to  the  bank  an 
enormous  trout,  flapping  and  bouncing  among  the 
leaves. 

In  a  second  I  had  seized  the  fish — it  took  all  the 
strength  of  my  arm  to  hold  him — and  the  rest  was 
soon  over.  There  he  lay,  a  monarch  among 
trout,  glistening,  dappled,  crimson-flecked.  I 
walked  down  to  the  water's  edge,  washed  my 
hands  mechanically,  and  slowly  climbed  back 
again. 

"  I  didn't  know  it  was  your  rod,"  she  said. 
"  I  only  saw  a  big  fish  on  it,  and  I  pulled  it  out." 

"  I— I  thought  you  had  left  Clovermead,"  I 
stammered. 

"  I  thought  you  had  also,"  she  said  ;  "  all  the 
others  have  gone.  To-morrow  I  go ;  my  guardian 
is  coming." 

"  To-morrow?  " 

<(  Yes  ;  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning." 

There  was  an  awkward  pause.  I  glanced 
askance  at  the  fish,  already  ashamed  of  my  work, 
dreading  to  know  what  she  thought  of  a  man  who 
fished  with  bait. 

"  It  is  a  large  trout,"  she  said  timidly  ;  "  it  is 
a  wonder  that  I  did  n't  break  your  rod  and  line. 
You  see  I  never  before  caught  a  trout." 

"  And — and  you  would  not — you  don't  think 
less  of  a  man  because  he  fishes  with  bait  ?  "  I 
asked,  red  with  shame. 


298  The  Crime. 

"  I  ?    Why,  no.     What  else  would  you  use  ?  " 

"  Flies,"  I  said,  desperately.  "You  know 
it." 

' '  Flies  ?     Can  you  catch  enough  ?  ' ' 

"  I  mean  artificial  flies,"  I  said.  "  You  don't 
understand,  you  can't  conceive  the  depth  of 
depravity  that  leads  a  man  to  catch  a  trout  as 
I  've  caught  this, — can  you  ?  It  's  simple  mur 
der." 

"  But,"  said  Miss  Thorne,  with  a  puzzled 
glance  at  the  fish,  "  I  thought  that  I  caught 
him." 

"  I— I  baited  the  hook,"  I  faltered. 

"  Then,"  said  she,  "  it  's  a  clear  case  of  collu 
sion,  and  we  're  both  responsible." 

We  looked  at  each  other  for  an  instant.  She 
sighed,  almost  imperceptibly. 

' '  I  am  very  sorry  for  what  I  said  that  night, ' ' 
I  began.  "  You  can't  think  how  it  has  troubled 
me  ever  since.  I  have  suffered  a  great  deal — er 
— and  I  'm  deucedly  miserable,  Miss  Thorne." 

'  *  I  forgive  you, ' '  she  said  sweetly.  ' '  Why  did 
you  not  ask  me  before  ?  ' ' 

"  Because,"  said  I,  "  being  an  idiot  I  did  n't 
dare." 

"  It  made  me  very  unhappy,"  she  said.  "  I 
should  not  have  spoken  so ' ' 

"  Oh,  you  were  quite  right  !  "  I  cried  ;  "  it  was 
my  fault  entirely." 

"No  indeed  !" 

"It  was,  really." 


The  Crime.  299 

' '  And  to  think  I  should  have  spoken  so  after 
the  trout  you  gave  me  and  the  serenade ' ' 

"  If  the  music  had  been  as  good  as  the 
trout " 

' '  It  was, — it  was  charming  ;  and  you  said  some 
things  that  first  afternoon  under  my  window — 

' '  I  meant  them ! — I  mean  them  now  a  thousand 
fold  !" 

The  crimson  stained  her  cheeks.  She  half 
turned  toward  the  river. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "  that  I  am  late  for 
luncheon." 

Very  humbly  I  produced  my  flask  of  Bordeaux, 
my  cold  chicken,  bread,  and  hot-house  pears. 
She  looked  at  them,  her  head  on  one  side. 

"  It  is  not  very  much, ' '  I  ventured, — ' '  for  two. ' ' 

"  I  think  it  will  do,"  she  said  reflectively; 
"  there  are  some  cresses  by  the  brook.  I  am  fond 
of  cresses.  Have  you  pepper  and  salt  ?  " 

I  rummaged  in  my  pockets,  produced  the  har 
monica,  a  package  of  tobacco,  a  spare  reel,  a  knife, 
a  steel  hunting  watch,  a  cigarette  case,  a  box 
of  dry  flies,  a  match-case,  a  box  of  leaders,  and 
finally  a  neat  little  parcel  of  pepper  and  salt. 

She  watched  me  with  perfect  gravity. 

"  If  you  please,"  she  said,  "  you  may  go  and 
play  on  your  harmonica  under  that  oak  tree  while 
I  arrange  the  table.  Will  you  ?  ' ' 

"  Can't  I  help  you  ?  "  I  murmured,  giddy  with 
happiness. 

"  No.     Go  and  play  *  Sir  Daniel  O'Donnell.'  " 


300  The  Crime. 

I  watched  her,  tooting  fitfully  the  while,  and 
presently  she  called  to  me  that  luncheon  was 
ready,  and  asked  me  to  lend  her  my  handkerchief 
to  dry  her  hands. 

We  drank  in  turn  from  the  flask,  gravely  beg 
ging  pardon  for  the  goutte  sans  f agon. 

But  the  luncheon  !  There  never  was  such  a 
luncheon  served  in  the  palaces  of  Stamboul  !  I 
ate  ambrosia — some  name  it  chicken — and  I  drank 
nectar — foolish  people  would  have  called  it  Bor 
deaux,  and  I  sat  opposite  to  and  looked  in  the 
blue  eyes  of  the  sweetest  maid  in  the  world. 

And  so  we  sat  and  chatted  on,  I  knowing  little 
of  what  was  said  save  that  it  was  her  voice,  always 
her  voice  in  my  ears  and  every  word  was  melody. 
The  swift  droop  of  the  long  lashes  on  the  pure 
curved  cheeks,  the  gentle  caress  in  every  move 
ment,  the  light  glinting  on  tawny  hair,  on  stray 
curling  strands  blown  across  her  eyes — these  I 
remember. 

The  shadows  came  and  laid  their  long  shapes 
on  the  sands  of  the  shore,  the  trees  darkened 
where  the  massed  foliage  swept  in  one  unbroken 
sheet  above  the  moss  ;  the  red  west  blazed. 

Once  a  fish  splashed  among  the  weeds  ;  a  wood- 
duck  steered  fearlessly  past,  peering  and  turning, 
sousing  its  gorgeous  neck  in  the  shallow  stream. 

At  last  she  sprang  up,  touching  her  hair  with 
light  swift  fingers,  and  shaking  her  skirts  full 
breadth. 

"I  must  go.'* 


The  Crime.  301 


11  So  soon?" 

"  Yes.  Shall  I  say  good-bye  now  for  to 
morrow  ? ' ' 

"Say  it." 

"Good-bye,  then." 

"Is  that  all?" 

11  Good-bye " 

"  Nothing  more?  " 

"  Oh,  what— what  else  ?  "  she  murmured;  "  I 
can  say  no  more. ' ' 

11  lean,"  said  I. 

"  You  must  not — ah,  do  you  mean  it  ?  " 

"Yes.     I  love  you." 

' '  Then  we  will  go  back — together, ' '  she  said, 
innocently,  and  came  close  up  to  me,  lajdng  her 

white  hands  in  mine. 

#  #  #  *  #  * 

"  Ah,"  said  I,  as  we  entered  the  road  by  the 
dormitory,  ' '  the  trout  is  a  noble  one,  but,  May,  it 
was  murder  that  was  done  on  Clovermead  water. ' ' 

"  And  theft,"  she  said,  with  a  faint  smile, 
' '  where  is  my  heart,  if  you  please  ?  ' ' 

And  we  looked  long,  smiling  into  each  other's 

eyes. 

#  *  #  *  *  * 

It  all  happened  years  ago.  I  have  never 
touched  bait  to  hook  since,  but  I  confess  that  I  do 
still,  at  times,  play  "  Sir  Daniel  O'Donnell"  on 
the  harmonica.  May  permits  it,  especially  when 
the  children  beg  me  ;  and,  as  they  are  teasing  me 
now,  I  shall  probably  play  it  to-night. 


A  PLEASANT  EVENING. 


Et  pis,  doucett'ment  on  s'endort, 

On  fait  sa  carne,  on  fait  sa  sorgue, 

On  ronfle,  et,  comme  un  tuyau  d'orgue, 

I/tuyau  s'met  &  ronfler  pus  fort.    .    .    ." 

ARISTIDS  BRUANT. 


A  PLEASANT  EVENING. 


i. 


AS  I  stepped  upon  the  platform  of  a  Broadway 
cable-car  at  Forty-second  Street,  somebody 
said;  "  hello,  Hilton,  Jamison  's  looking 
for  you." 

''Hello,  Curtis,"  I  replied,  "  what  does  Jami 
son  want  ? ' ' 

"  He  wants  to  know  what  you  've  been  doing 
all  the  week, ' '  said  Curtis,  hanging  desperately  to 
the  railing  as  the  car  lurched  forward  ;  ' '  he  says 
you  seem  to  think  that  the  Manhattan  Illustrated 
Weekly  was  created  for  the  sole  purpose  of  provid 
ing  salary  and  vacations  for  you." 

' '  The  shifty  old  tom-cat !  "  I  said,  indignantly, 
"  he  knows  well  enough  where  I  've  been.  Va 
cation  !  Does  he  think  the  State  Camp  in  June  is 
a  snap  ?  ' ' 

"Oh,"  said  Curtis,  "  you  've  been  to  Peeks- 
kill  ?" 

' '  I  should  say  so, "  I  replied,  my  wrath  rising 
as  I  thought  of  my  assignment. 

' (  Hot  ? ' '  inquired  Curtis,  dreamily. 
305 


306  A  Pleasant  Evening. 

1 '  One  hundred  and  three  in  the  shade, ' '  I  an 
swered.  "Jamison  wanted  three  full  pages  and 
three  half  pages,  all  for  process  work,  and  a  lot  of 
line  drawings  into  the  bargain.  I  could  have 
faked  them — I  wish  I  had.  I  was  fool  enough  to 
hustle  and  break  my  neck  to  get  some  honest 
drawings,  and  that  's  the  thanks  I  get  !  " 

' '  Did  you  have  a  camera  ?  ' ' 

"  No.  I  will  next  time — I  '11  waste  no  more 
conscientious  work  on  Jamison,"  I  said  sulkily. 

"It  does  n't  pay,"  said  Curtis.  "When  I 
have  military  work  assigned  me,  I  don't  do  the 
dashing  sketch-artist  act,  you  bet  ;  I  go  to  my 
studio,  light  my  pipe,  pull  out  a  lot  of  old  Illus 
trated  London  News,  select  several  suitable  battle 
scenes  by  Caton  Woodville — and  use  'em  too." 

The  car  shot  around  the  neck-breaking  curve  at 
Fourteenth  Street. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Curtis,  as  the  car  stopped  in 
front  of  the  Morton  House  for  a  moment,  then 
plunged  forward  again  amid  a  furious  clanging  of 
gongs,  "  it  does  n't  pay  to  do  decent  work  for  the 
fat-headed  men  who  run  the  Manhattan  Illustrated. 
They  don't  appreciate  it." 

"  I  think  the  public  does,"  I  said,  "  but  I  'm 
sure  Jamison  does  n't.  It  would  serve  him  right 
if  I  did  what  most  of  you  fellows  do — take  a  lot  of 
Caton  Woodville' s  and  Thulstrup's  drawings, 
change  the  uniforms,  '  chic  '  a  figure  or  two,  and 
turn  in  a  drawing  labelled  '  from  life.'  I  'm  sick 
of  this  sort  of  thing  anyway.  Almost  every  day 
this  week  I  've  been  chasing  myself  over  that 


A  Pleasant  Evening.  307 

tropical  camp,  or  galloping  in  the  wake  of  those 
batteries.  I  've  got  a  full  page  of  the  '  camp  by 
moonlight, '  full  pages  of  '  artillery  drill '  and 
'  light  battery  in  action, '  and  a  dozen  smaller 
drawings  that  cost  me  more  groans  and  perspira 
tion  than  Jamison  ever  knew  in  all  his  lymphatic 
life  !" 

"  Jamison  's  got  wheels,"  said  Curtis, — "  more 
wheels  than  there  are  bicycles  in  Harlem.  He 
wants  you  to  do  a  full  page  by  Saturday. ' ' 

"  A  what  ?  "  I  exclaimed,  aghast. 

' '  Yes  he  does — he  was  going  to  send  Jim  Craw 
ford,  but  Jim  expects  to  go  to  California  for  the 
winter  fair,  and  you  've  got  to  do  it." 

' '  What  is  it  ?  "  I  demanded  savagely. 

"The  animals  in  Central  Park,"  chuckled 
Curtis. 

I  was  furious.  The  animals  !  Indeed  !  I  'd 
show  Jamison  that  I  was  entitled  to  some  consid 
eration  !  This  was  Thursday;  that  gave  me  a 
day  and  a  half  to  finish  a  full-page  drawing  for 
the  paper,  and,  after  my  work  at  the  State  Camp 
I  felt  that  I  was  entitled  to  a  little  rest.  Anyway 
I  objected  to  the  subject.  I  intended  to  tell  Jami 
son  so — I  intended  to  tell  him  firmly.  However, 
many  of  the  things  that  we  often  intended  to  tell 
Jamison  were  never  told.  He  was  a  peculiar 
man,  fat-faced,  thin-lipped,  gentle-voiced,  mild- 
mannered,  and  soft  in  his  movements  as  a  pussy 
cat.  Just  why  our  firmness  should  give  way 
when  we  were  actually  in  his  presence,  I  have 
never  quite  been  able  to  determine.  He  said  very 


308  A  Pleasant  Evening. 

little — so  did  we,  although  we  often  entered  his 
presence  with  other  intentions. 

The  truth  was  that  the  Manhattan  Illustrated 
Weekly  was  the  best  paying,  best  illustrated 
paper  in  America,  and  we  young  fellows  were  not 
anxious  to  be  cast  adrift.  Jamison's  knowledge 
of  art  was  probably  as  extensive  as  the  knowledge 
of  any  * '  Art  editor  * '  in  the  city.  Of  course  that 
was  saying  nothing,  but  the  fact  merited  careful 
consideration  on  our  part,  and  we  gave  it  much 
consideration. 

This  time,  however,  I  decided  to  let  Jamison 
know  that  drawings  are  not  produced  by  the  yard, 
and  that  I  was  neither  a  floor- walker  nor  a  hand- 
me-down.  I  would  stand  up  for  my  rights  ;  I  'd 
tell  old  Jamison  a  few  things  to  set  the  wheels 
under  his  silk  hat  spinning,  and  if  he  attempted 
any  of  his  pussy-cat  ways  on  me,  I  'd  give  him  a 
few  plain  facts  that  would  curl  what  hair  he  had 
left. 

Glowing  with  a  splendid  indignation  I  jumped 
off  the  car  at  the  City  Hall,  followed  by  Curtis, 
and  a  few  minutes  later  entered  the  office  of  the 
Manhattan  Illustrated  News. 

1 '  Mr.  Jamison  would  like  to  see  you,  sir, ' '  said 
one  of  the  compositors  as  I  passed  into  the  long 
hallway.  I  threw  my  drawings  on  the  table  and 
passed  a  handkerchief  over  my  forehead. 

"  Mr.  Jamison  would  like  to  see  you,  sir,"  said 
a  small  freckle-faced  boy  with  a  smudge  of  ink  on 
his  nose. 


A  Pleasant  Evening.  309 

1 '  I  know  it, "  I  said,  and  started  to  remove  my 
gloves. 

' '  Mr.  Jamison  would  like  to  see  you,  sir, ' '  said 
a  lank  messenger  who  was  carrying  a  bundle  of 
proofs  to  the  floor  below. 

"  The  deuce  take  Jamison,"  I  said  to  myself. 
I  started  toward  the  dark  passage  that  leads  to 
the  abode  of  Jamison,  running  over  in  my  mind 
the  neat  and  sarcastic  speech  which  I  had  been 
composing  during  the  last  ten  minutes. 

Jamison  looked  up  and  nodded  softly  as  I  en 
tered  the  room.  I  forgot  my  speech. 

' '  Mr.  Hilton, ' '  he  said,  ' '  we  want  a  full  page 
of  the  Zoo  before  it  is  removed  to  Bronx  Park. 
Saturday  afternoon  at  three  o'clock  the  drawing 
must  be  in  the  engraver's  hands.  Did  you  have 
a  pleasant  week  in  camp  ?  ' ' 

' '  It  was  hot, ' '  I  muttered,  furious  to  find  that 
I  could  not  remember  my  little  speech. 

' '  The  weather, ' '  said  Jamison,  with  soft  cour 
tesy,  ' '  is  oppressive  everywhere.  Are  your  draw 
ings  in,  Mr.  Hilton  ?  ' ' 

"  Yes.  It  was  infernally  hot  and  I  worked  like 
a  nigger " 

' '  I  suppose  you  were  quite  overcome.  Is  that 
why  you  took  a  two  days'  trip  to  the  Catskills  ? 
I  trust  the  mountain  air  restored  you — but — was 
it  prudent  to  go  to  Cranston's  for  the  cotillion 
Tuesday  ?  Dancing  in  such  uncomfortable 
weather  is  really  unwise.  Good-morning,  Mr. 
Hilton,  remember  the  engraver  should  have  your 
drawings  on  Saturday  by  three." 


310  A  Pleasant  Evening. 

I  walked  out,  half  hypnotized,  half  enraged. 
Curtis  grinned  at  me  as  I  passed — I  could  have 
boxed  his  ears. 

' '  Why  the  mischief  should  I  lose  my  tongue 
whenever  that  old  tom-cat  purrs  !  "  I  asked  my 
self  as  I  entered  the  elevator  and  was  shot  down 
to  the  first  floor.  "  I  '11  not  put  up  with  this  sort 
of  thing  much  longer — how  in  the  name  of  all 
that 's  foxy  did  he  know  that  I  went  to  the  moun 
tains  ?  I  suppose  he  thinks  I  'm  lazy  because  I 
don't  wish  to  be  boiled  to  death.  How  did  he 
know  about  the  dance  at  Cranston's  ?  Old  cat!  " 

The  roar  and  turmoil  of  machinery  and  busy 
men  filled  my  ears  as  I  crossed  the  avenue  and 
turned  into  the  City  Hall  Park. 

From  the  staff  on  the  tower  the  flag  drooped  in 
the  warm  sunshine  with  scarcely  a  breeze  to  lift 
its  crimson  bars.  Overhead  stretched  a  splendid 
cloudless  sky,  deep,  deep  blue,  thrilling,  scintil 
lating  in  the  gemmed  rays  of  the  sun. 

Pigeons  wheeled  and  circled  about  the  roof  of 
the  grey  Post  Office  or  dropped  out  of  the  blue 
above  to  flutter  around  the  fountain  in  the  square. 

On  the  steps  of  the  City  Hall  the  unlovely  poli 
tician  lounged,  exploring  his  heavy  under  jaw 
with  wooden  toothpick,  twisting  his  drooping 
black  moustache,  or  distributing  tobacco  juice 
over  marble  steps  and  close-clipped  grass. 

My  eyes  wandered  from  these  human  vermin  to 
the  calm  scornful  face  of  Nathan  Hale,  on  his 
pedestal,  and  then  to  the  grey-coated  Park  po- 


A  Pleasant  Evening.  3 1 1 

liceman  whose  occupation  was  to  keep  little  chil 
dren  from  the  cool  grass. 

A  young  man  with  thin  hands  and  blue  circles 
under  his  eyes  was  slumbering  on  a  bench  by  the 
fountain,  and  the  policeman  walked  over  to  him 
and  struck  him  on  the  soles  of  his  shoes  with  a 
short  club. 

The  young  man  rose  mechanically,  stared 
about,  dazed  by  the  sun,  shivered,  and  limped 
away.  I  saw  him  sit  down  on  the  steps  of  the 
white  marble  building,  and  I  went  over  and  spoke 
to  him.  He  neither  looked  at  me,  nor  did  he  no 
tice  the  coin  I  offered. 

"  You  're  sick,"  I  said,  <(  you  had  better  go  to 
the  hospital." 

"  Where  ?  "  he  asked  vacantly — "  I  've  been, 
but  they  would  n't  receive  me." 

He  stooped  and  tied  the  bit  of  string  that  held 
what  remained  of  his  shoe  to  his  foot. 

<(  You  are  French,"  I  said. 

"Yes." 

'  *  Have  you  no  friends  ?  Have  you  been  to  the 
French  Consul?" 

"  The  Consul  !  "  he  replied  ;  "no,  I  have  n't 
been  to  the  French  Consul." 

After  a  moment  I  said,  ' '  You  speak  like  a  gen 
tleman." 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  stood  very  straight, 
looking  me,  for  the  first  time,  directly  in  the 
eyes. 

' '  Who  are  you  ?  "  I  asked  abruptly. 


312  A  Pleasant  Evening. 

"  An  outcast,"  he  said,  without  emotion,  and 
limped  off  thrusting  his  hands  into  his  ragged 
pockets. 

"  Huh  !  "  said  the  Park  policeman  who  had 
come  up  behind  me  in  time  to  hear  my  question 
and  the  vagabond's  answer;  "  don't  you  know 
who  that  hobo  is  ?  —  An'  you  a  newspaper 
man  !" 

: '  Who  is  he,  Cusick  ?  "  I  demanded,  watching 
the  thin  shabby  figure  moving  across  Broadway 
toward  the  river. 

"  On  the  level  you  don't  know,  Mr.  Hilton  ?  " 
repeated  Cusick,  suspiciously. 

* '  No,  I  don't ;  I  never  before  laid  eyes  on  him. ' ' 

"  Why,"  said  the  sparrow  policeman,  "  that  's 
*  Soger  Charlie  ' ; — you  remember — that  French 
officer  what  sold  secrets  to  the  Dutch  Emperor." 

' '  And  was  to  have  been  shot  ?  I  remember 
now,  four  years  ago — and  he  escaped — you  mean 
to  say  that  is  the  man  ?  ' ' 

"  Everybody  knows  it,"  sniffed  Cusick,  "  I  'd 
a-thought  you  newspaper  gents  would  have 
knowed  it  first. ' ' 

' '  What  was  his  name  ?  "  I  asked  after  a  mo 
ment 's  thought. 

' '  Soger  Charlie " 

( '  I  mean  his  name  at  home. ' ' 

"  Oh,  some  French  dago  name.  No  French 
man  will  speak  to  him  here  ;  sometimes  they  curse 
him  and  kick  him.  I  guess  he  's  dyin'  by 
inches." 


A  Pleasant  Evening.  313 

I  remembered  the  case  now.  Two  young 
French  cavalry  officers  were  arrested,  charged 
with  selling  plans  of  fortifications  and  other  mili 
tary  secrets  to  the  Germans.  On  the  eve  of  their 
conviction,  one  of  them,  Heaven  only  knows  how, 
escaped  and  turned  up  in  New  York.  The  other 
was  duly  shot.  The  affair  had  made  some  noise, 
because  both  young  men  were  of  good  families. 
It  was  a  painful  episode,  and  I  had  hastened  to 
forget  it.  Now  that  it  was  recalled  to  my  mind, 
I  remembered  the  newspaper  accounts  of  the  case, 
but  I  had  forgotten  the  names  of  the  miserable 
young  men. 

* '  Sold  his  country, ' '  observed  Cusick,  watching 
a  group  of  children  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eyes — 
"  you  can't  trust  no  Frenchman  nor  dagoes  nor 
Dutchmen  either.  I  guess  Yankees  are  about  the 
only  white  men." 

I  looked  at  the  noble  face  of  Nathan  Hale  and 
nodded. 

' '  Nothin'  sneaky  about  us,  eh,  Mr.  Hilton  ?  ' ' 

I  thought  of  Benedict  Arnold  and  looked  at  my 
boots. 

Then  the  policeman  said,  "  Well,  solong,  Mr. 
Hilton, ' '  and  went  away  to  frighten  a  pasty-faced 
little  girl  who  had  climbed  upon  the  railing  and 
was  leaning  down  to  sniff  the  fragrant  grass. 

' (  Cheese  it,  de  cop  ! ' '  cried  her  shrill- voiced 
friends,  and  the  whole  bevy  of  small  ragamuffins 
scuttled  away  across  the  square. 

With  a  feeling    of   depression   I   turned  and 


314  A  Pleasant  Evening. 

walked  toward  Broadway,  where  the  long  yellow 
cable-cars  swept  up  and  down,  and  the  din  of 
gongs  and  the  deafening  rumble  of  heavy  trucks 
echoed  from  the  marble  walls  of  the  Court  House 
to  the  granite  mass  of  the  Post  Office. 

Throngs  of  hurrying  busy  people  passed  up 
town  and  down  town,  slim  sober-faced  clerks,  trim 
cold-eyed  brokers,  here  and  there  a  red-necked 
politician  linking  arms  with  some  favourite  heeler, 
here  and  there  a  City  Hall  lawyer,  sallow-faced 
and  saturnine.  Sometimes  a  fireman,  in  his 
severe  blue  uniform,  passed  through  the  crowd, 
sometimes  a  blue-coated  policeman,  mopping  his 
clipped  hair,  holding  his  helmet  in  his  white- 
gloved  hand.  There  were  women  too,  pale-faced 
shop  girls  with  pretty  eyes,  tall  blonde  girls  who 
might  be  typewriters  and  might  not,  and  many, 
many  older  women  whose  business  in  that  part  of 
the  city  no  human  being  could  venture  to  guess, 
but  who  hurried  up  town  and  down  town,  all 
occupied  with  something  that  gave  to  the  whole 
restless  throng  a  common  likeness — the  expression 
of  one  who  hastens  toward  a  hopeless  goal. 

I  knew  some  of  those  who  passed  me.  There 
was  little  Jocelyn  of  the  Mail  and  Express; 
there  was  Hoed,  who  had  more  money  than  he 
wanted  and  was  going  to  have  less  than  he  wanted 
when  he  left  Wall  Street ;  there  was  Colonel  Tid- 
mouse  of  the  45th  Infantry,  N.G.S.N.Y.,  prob 
ably  coming  from  the  office  of  the  Army  and 
Navy  Journal,  and  there  was  Dick  Harding 


A  Pleasant  Evening.  3 1 5 

who  wrote  the  best  stories  of  New  York  life  that 
have  been  printed.  People  said  his  hat  no  longer 
fitted, — especially  people  who  also  wrote  stories  of 
New  York  life  and  whose  hats  threatened  to  fit  as 
long  as  they  lived. 

I  looked  at  the  statue  of  Nathan  Hale,  then  at 
the  human  stream  that  flowed  around  his  ped 
estal. 

{ '  Quand  meme, ' '  I  muttered  and  walked  out 
into  Broadway,  signalling  to  the  gripman  of  an 
uptown  cable-car. 


II. 


I  PASSED  into  the  Park  by  the  Fifth  Avenue 
and  59th  Street  gate  ;  I  could  never  bring 
myself  to  enter  it  through  the  gate  that  is 
guarded  by  the  hideous  pigmy  statue  of  Thor- 
waldsen. 

The  afternoon  sun  poured  into  the  windows  of 
the  New  Netherlands  Hotel,  setting  every  orange- 
curtained  pane  a-glitter,  and  tipping  the  wings  of 
the  bronze  dragons  with  flame. 

Gorgeous  masses  of  flowers  blazed  in  the  sun 
shine  from  the  grey  terraces  of  the  Savoy,  from 
the  high  grilled  court  of  the  Vanderbilt  palace, 
and  from  the  balconies  of  the  Plaza  opposite. 

The  white  marble  fagade  of  the  Metropolitan 
Club  was  a  grateful  relief  in  the  universal  glare, 
and  I  kept  my  eyes  on  it  until  I  had  crossed  the 
dusty  street  and  entered  the  shade  of  the  trees. 

Before  I  came  to  the  Zoo  I  smelled  it.  Next 
week  it  was  to  be  removed  to  the  fresh  cool  woods 
and  meadows  in  Bronx  Park,  far  from  the  stifling 
air  of  the  city,  far  from  the  infernal  noise  of  the 
Fifth  Avenue  omnibuses. 

A  noble  stag  stared  at  me  from  his  enclosure 
316 


A  Pleasant  Evening.  317 

among  the  trees  as  I  passed  down  the  winding 
asphalt  walk.  "  Never  mind,  old  fellow,"  said  I, 
( '  you  will  be  splashing  about  in  the  Bronx  River 
next  week  and  cropping  maple  shoots  to  your 
heart's  content." 

On  I  went,  past  herds  of  staring  deer,  past 
great  lumbering  elk,  and  moose,  and  long-faced 
African  antelopes,  until  I  came  to  the  dens  of  the 
great  carnivora. 

The  tigers  sprawled  in  the  sunshine,  blinking 
and  licking  their  paws  ;  the  lions  slept  in  the 
shade  or  squatted  on  their  haunches,  yawning 
gravely.  A  slim  panther  travelled  to  and  fro  be 
hind  her  barred  cage,  pausing  at  times  to  peer 
wistfully  out  into  the  free  sunny  world.  My  heart 
ached  for  caged  wild  things,  and  I  walked  on, 
glancing  up  now  and  then  to  encounter  the  blank 
stare  of  a  tiger  or  the  mean  shifty  eyes  of  some  ill- 
smelling  hyena. 

Across  the  meadow  I  could  see  the  elephants 
swaying  and  swinging  their  great  heads,  the 
sober  bison  solemnly  slobbering  over  their  cuds, 
the  sarcastic  countenances  of  camels,  the  wicked 
little  zebras,  and  a  lot  more  animals  of  the  camel 
and  llama  tribe,  all  resembling  each  other,  all 
equally  ridiculous,  stupid,  deadly  uninteresting. 

Somewhere  behind  the  old  arsenal  an  eagle  was 
screaming,  probably  a  Yankee  eagle  ;  I  heard  the 
"  tchug  !  tchug  !  "  of  a  blowing  hippopotamus, 
the  squeal  of  a  falcon,  and  the  snarling  yap  !  of 
quarrelling  wolves. 


3 1 8  A  Pleasant  Evening. 

'  *  A  pleasant  place  for  a  hot  day  !  "  I  pondered 
bitterly,  and  I  thought  some  things  about  Jami 
son  that  I  shall  not  insert  in  this  volume.  But  I 
lighted  a  cigarette  to  deaden  the  aroma  from  the 
hyenas,  unclasped  my  sketching  block,  sharpened 
my  pencil,  and  fell  to  work  on  a  family  group  of 
hippopotami. 

They  may  have  taken  me  for  a  photographer, 
for  they  all  wore  smiles  as  if  "  welcoming  a 
friend, ' '  and  my  sketch  block  presented  a  series 
of  wide  open  jaws,  behind  which  shapeless  bulky 
bodies  vanished  in  alarming  perspective. 

The  alligators  were  easy  ;  they  looked  to  me  as 
though  they  had  not  moved  since  the  founding  of 
the  Zoo,  but  I  had  a  bad  time  with  the  big  bison, 
who  persistently  turned  his  tail  to  me,  looking 
stolidly  around  his  flank  to  see  how  I  stood  it. 
So  I  pretended  to  be  absorbed  in  the  antics  of  two 
bear  cubs,  and  the  dreary  old  bison  fell  into  the 
trap,  for  I  made  some  good  sketches  of  him  and 
laughed  in  his  face  as  I  closed  the  book. 

There  was  a  bench  by  the  abode  of  the  eagles, 
and  I  sat  down  on  it  to  draw  the  vultures  and 
condors,  motionless  as  mummies  among  the  piled 
rocks.  Gradually  I  enlarged  the  sketch,  bringing 
in  the  gravel  plaza,  the  steps  leading  up  to  Fifth 
Avenue,  the  sleepy  park  policeman  in  front  of  the 
arsenal — and  a  slim,  white-browed  girl,  dressed  in 
shabby  black,  who  stood  silently  in  the  shade  of 
the  willow  trees. 

After  a  while  I  found  that  the  sketch,  instead 


A  Pleasant  Evening.  319 

of  being  a  study  of  the  eagles,  was  in  reality  a 
composition  in  which  the  girl  in  black  occupied 
the  principal  point  of  interest.  Unwittingly  I 
had  subordinated  everything  else  to  her,  the 
brooding  vultures,  the  trees  and  walks,  and  the 
half  indicated  groups  of  sun-warmed  loungers. 

She  stood  very  still,  her  pallid  face  bent,  her 
thin  white  hands  loosely  clasped  before  her. 
"Rather  dejected  reverie,"  I  thought,  "prob 
ably  she  's  out  of  work."  Then  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  sparkling  diamond  ring  on  the  slen 
der  third  finger  of  her  left  hand. 

"  She  '11  not  starve  with  such  a  stone  as  that 
about  her, ' '  I  said  to  myself,  looking  curiously  at 
her  dark  eyes  and  sensitive  mouth.  They  were 
both  beautiful,  eyes  and  mouth — beautiful,  but 
touched  with  pain. 

After  a  while  I  rose  and  walked  back  to  make  a 
sketch  or  two  of  the  lions  and  tigers.  I  avoided 
the  monkeys — I  can't  stand  them,  and  they  never 
seem  funny  to  me,  poor  dwarfish,  degraded  carica 
tures  of  all  that  is  ignoble  in  ourselves. 

"  I  've  enough  now,"  I  thought  ;  "I  '11  go  home 
and  manufacture  a  full  page  that  will  probably 
please  Jamison."  So  I  strapped  the  elastic  band 
around  my  sketching  block,  replaced  pencil  and 
rubber  in  my  waistcoat  pocket,  and  strolled  off 
toward  the  Mall  to  smoke  a  cigarette  in  the  even 
ing  glow  before  going  back  to  my  studio  to  work 
until  midnight,  up  to  the  chin  in  charcoal  grey 
and  Chinese  white. 


320  A  Pleasant  Evening. 

Across  the  long  meadow  I  could  see  the  roofs 
of  the  city  faintly  looming  above  the  trees.  A 
mist  of  amethyst,  ever  deepening,  hung  low  on 
the  horizon,  and  through  it,  steeple  and'  dome, 
roof  and  tower,  and  the  tall  chimneys  where  thin 
fillets  of  smoke  curled  idly,  were  transformed  into 
pinnacles  of  beryl  and  flaming  minarets,  swimming 
in  filmy  haze.  Slowly  the  enchantment  deepened ; 
all  that  was  ugly  and  shabby  and  mean  had  fallen 
away  from  the  distant  city,  and  now  it  towered 
into  the  evening  sky,  splendid,  gilded,  magnifi 
cent,  purified  in  the  fierce  furnace  of  the  setting 
sun. 

The  red  disk  was  half  hidden  now  ;  the  tracery 
of  trees,  feathery  willow  and  budding  birch,  dark 
ened  against  the  glow;  the  fiery  rays  shot  far 
across  the  meadow,  gilding  the  dead  leaves,  stain 
ing  with  soft  crimson  the  tiark  moist  tree  trunks 
around  me. 

Far  across  the  meadow  a  shepherd  passed  in 
the  wake  of  a  huddling  flock,  his  dog  at  his  heels, 
faint  moving  blots  of  grey. 

A  squirrel  sat  up  on  the  gravel  walk  in  front  of 
me,  ran  a  few  feet,  and  sat  up  again,  so  close  that 
I  could  see  the  palpitation  of  his  sleek  flanks. 

Somewhere  in  the  grass  a  hidden  field  insect 
was  rehearsing  last  summer's  solos  ;  I  heard  the 
tap  !  tap  !  tat-tat-t-t-tat  !  of  a  woodpecker  among 
the  branches  overhead  and  the  querulous  note  of 
a  sleepy  robin. 

The  twilight  deepened  ;    out  of  the  city  the 


A  Pleasant  Evening.  3  2 1 

music  of  bells  floated  over  wood  and  meadow ;  faint 
mellow  whistles  sounded  from  the  river  craft  along 
the  north  shore,  and  the  distant  thunder  of  a  gun 
announced  the  close  of  a  June  day. 

The  end  of  my  cigarette  began  to  glimmer  with 
a  redder  light  ;  shepherd  and  flock  were  blotted 
out  in  the  dusk,  and  I  only  knew  they  were  still 
moving  when  the  sheep  bells  tinkled  faintly. 

Then  suddenly  that  strange  uneasiness  that  all 
have  known — that  half- awakened  sense  of  having 
seen  it  all  before,  of  having  been  through  it  all, 
came  over  me,  and  I  raised  my  head  and  slowly 
turned. 

A  figure  was  seated  at  my  side.  My  mind  was 
struggling  with  the  instinct  to  remember.  Some 
thing  so  vague  and  yet  so  familiar — something 
that  eluded  thought  yet  challenged  it,  something 
— God  knows  what  !  troubled  me.  And  now,  as 
I  looked,  without  interest,  at  the  dark  figure 
beside  me,  an  apprehension,  totally  involuntary, 
an  impatience  to  understand,  came  upon  me,  and 
I  sighed  and  turned  restlessly  again  to  the  fading 
west. 

I  thought  I  heard  my  sigh  re-echoed — I  scarcely 
heeded  ;  and  in  a  moment  I  sighed  again,  drop 
ping  my  burned-out  cigarette  on  the  gravel 
beneath  my  feet. 

' '  Did  you  speak  to  me  ? ' '  said  some  one  in  a 
low  voice,  so  close  that  I  swung  around  rather 
sharply. 

"  No,"  I  said  after  a  moment's  silence. 


322  A  Pleasant  Evening. 

It  was  a  woman.  I  could  not  see  her  face  clearly, 
but  I  saw  on  her  clasped  hands,  which  lay  list 
lessly  in  her  lap,  the  sparkle  of  a  great  diamond. 
I  knew  her  at  once.  It  did  not  need  a  glance  at 
the  shabby  dress  of  black,  the  white  face,  a  pallid 
spot  in  the  twilight,  to  tell  me  that  I  had  her 
picture  in  my  sketch-book. 

' '  Do — do  you  mind  if  I  speak  to  you  ?  ' '  she 
asked  timidly.  The  hopeless  sadness  in  her  voice 
touched  me,  and  I  said  :  "  Why,  no,  of  course 
not.  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?  ' ' 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  brightening  a  little,  "  if  you 
— you  only  would. ' ' 

' '  I  will  if  I  can, ' '  said  I,  cheerfully  ;  l '  what  is 
it  ?  Out  of  ready  cash  ?  ' ' 

'  *  No,  not  that, ' '  she  said,  shrinking  back. 

I  begged  her  pardon,  a  little  surprised,  and 
withdrew  my  hand  from  my  change  pocket. 

"It  is  only — only  that  I  wish  you  to  take 
these," — she  drew  a  thin  packet  from  her  breast, 
— "  these  two  letters." 

"  I  ?  "  I  asked  astonished. 

"Yes,  if  you  will." 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do  with  them?"  I  de 
manded. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  ;  I  only  know  that  I  must 
give  them  to  you.  Will  you  take  them  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  '11  take  them,"  I  laughed,  "  am  I 
to  read  them  ?  "  I  added  to  myself,  "  It  's  some 
clever  begging  trick." 

"  No,"  she  answered  slowly,  "  you  are  not  to 


A  Pleasant  Evening.  323 

read  them  ;  you  are  to  give  them  to  some 
body." 

' '  To  whom  ?     Anybody  ? ' ' 

' '  No,  not  to  anybody.  You  will  know  whom 
to  give  them  to  when  the  time  comes." 

' '  Then  I  am  to  keep  them  until  further  instruc 
tions  ?" 

"  Your  own  heart  will  instruct  you, "  she  said, 
in  a  scarcely  audible  voice.  She  held  the  thin 
packet  toward  me,  and  to  humour  her  I  took  it. 
It  was  wet. 

' '  The  letters  fell  into  the  sea, ' '  she  said ;  ' '  There 
was  a  photograph  which  should  have  gone  with 
them  but  the  salt  water  washed  it  blank.  Will 
you  care  if  I  ask  you  something  else  ?  ' ' 

"I?     Oh,  no." 

' '  Then  give  me  the  picture  that  you  made  of  me 
to-day." 

I  laughed  again,  and  demanded  how  she  knew 
I  had  drawn  her. 

"  Is  it  like  me  ?  "  she  said. 

' '  I  think  it  is  very  like  you, ' '  I  answered 
truthfully. 

' '  Will  you  not  give  it  to  me  ?  ' ' 

Now  it  was  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue  to  refuse, 
but  I  reflected  that  I  had  enough  sketches  for  a 
full  page  without  that  one,  so  I  handed  it  to  her, 
nodded  that  she  was  welcome,  and  stood  up.  She 
rose  also,  the  diamond  flashing  on  her  finger. 

' '  You  are  sure  that  you  are  not  in  want  ?  "  I 
asked,  with  a  tinge  of  good-natured  sarcasm. 


324  A  Pleasant  Evening. 

' '  Hark  ! ' '  she  whispered  ;  ' '  listen  ! — do  you 
hear  the  bells  of  the  convent  !  ' ' 

I  looked  out  into  the  misty  night. 

"  There  are  no  bells  sounding,"  I  said,  "and 
anyway  there  are  no  convent  bells  here.  We  are 
in  New  York,  mademoiselle  " — I  had  noticed  her 
French  accent — "we  are  in  Protestant  Yankee- 
land,  and  the  bells  that  ring  are  much  less  mellow 
than  the  bells  of  France." 

I  turned  pleasantly  to  say  good-night.  She  was 
gone. 


III. 


11  T  TAVK  you    ever    drawn   a  picture   of   a 
corpse  ? ' '  inquired  Jamison  next  morn 
ing  as  I  walked  into  his  private  room 
with  a  sketch  of  the  proposed  full  page  of  the 
Zoo. 

"  No,  and  I  don't  want  to,"  I  replied,  sullenly. 

"L,et  me  see  your  Central  Park  page,"  said 
Jamison  in  his  gentle  voice,  and  I  displayed  it. 
It  was  about  worthless  as  an  artistic  production, 
but  it  pleased  Jamison,  as  I  knew  it  would. 

' '  Can  you  finish  it  by  this  afternoon  ?  "  he 
asked,  looking  up  at  me  with  persuasive  eyes. 

1 '  Oh,  I  suppose  so, "  I  said,  wearily  ;  ' c  any 
thing  else,  Mr.  Jamison  ?  ' ' 

' '  The  corpse, ' '  he  replied,  ' '  I  want  a  sketch  by 
to-morrow — finished. ' ' 

' '  What  corpse  ?  "  I  demanded,  controlling  my 
indignation  as  I  met  Jamison's  soft  eyes. 

There  was  a  mute  duel  of  glances.  Jamison 
passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead  with  a  slight 
lifting  of  the  eyebrows. 

' '  I  shall  want  it  as  soon  as  possible, ' '  he  said  in 
his  caressing  voice. 

325 


326  A  Pleasant  Evening. 

What  I  thought  was,  ' '  Damned  purring  pussy 
cat  !"  What  I  said  was,  "Where  is  this 
corpse  ?  ' ' 

' '  In  the  Morgue — have  you  read  the  morning 
papers  ?  No  ?  Ah, — as  you  very  rightly  observe 
you  are  too  busy  to  read  the  morning  papers. 
Young  men  must  learn  industry  first,  of  course, 
of  course.  What  you  are  to  do  is  this  :  the  San 
Francisco  police  have  sent  out  an  alarm  regarding 
the  disappearance  of  a  Miss  Tufft — the  million 
aire's  daughter,  you  know.  To-day  a  body  was 
brought  to  the  Morgue  here  in  New  York,  and  it 
has  been  identified  as  the  missing  young  lady,— 
by  a  diamond  ring.  Now  I  am  convinced  that  it 
is  n't,  and  I  '11  show  you  why,  Mr.  Hilton." 

He  picked  up  a  pen  and  made  a  sketch  of  a 
ring  on  a  margin  of  that  morning's  Tribune. 

' '  That  is  the  description  of  her  ring  as  sent  on 
from  San  Francisco.  You  notice  the  diamond  is 
set  in  the  centre  of  the  ring  where  the  two  gold 
serpents'  tails  cross  ! 

Now  the  ring  on  the  finger  of  the  woman  in  the 
Morgue  is  like  this,"  and  he  rapidly  sketched 
another  ring  where  the  diamond  rested  in  the 
fangs  of  the  two  gold  serpents. 

' '  That  is  the  difference, ' '  he  said  in  his  pleas 
ant,  even  voice. 

' '  Rings  like  that  are  not  uncommon, ' '  said  I, 
remembering  that  I  had  seen  such  a  ring  on 
the  finger  of  the  white-faced  girl  in  the  Park  the 
evening  before.  Then  a  sudden  thought  took 


A  Pleasant  Evening.  327 

shape — perhaps  that  was  the  girl  whose  body  lay 
in  the  Morgue  ! 

''Well,"  said  Jamison,  looking  up  at  me, 
' '  what  are  you  thinking  about  ? ' ' 

*  *  Nothing, ' '  I  answered,  but  the  whole  scene 
was  before  my  eyes,  the  vultures  brooding  among 
the  rocks,  the  shabby  black  dress,  and  the  pallid 
face, — and  the  ring,  glittering  on  that  slim  white 
hand  ! 

' '  Nothing, ' '  I  repeated,  ' '  when  shall  I  go,  Mr. 
Jamison  ?  Do  you  want  a  portrait — or  what  ?  ' ' 

"Portrait, — careful  drawing  of  the  ring,  and, 
— er — a  centre  piece  of  the  Morgue  at  night. 
Might  as  well  give  people  the  horrors  while  we  're 
about  it." 

"  But,"  said  I,  "  the  policy  of  this  paper— 

"Never  mind,  Mr.  Hilton,"  purred  Jamison, 
* '  I  am  able  to  direct  the  policy  of  this  paper. ' ' 

"  I  don't  doubt  you  are,"  I  said  angrily. 

' '  I  am, ' '  he  repeated,  undisturbed  and  smiling  ; 
' '  you  see  this  Tufft  case  interests  society.  I  am 
— er — also  interested." 

He  held  out  to  me  a  morning  paper  and  pointed 
to  a  heading. 

I  read  :  "  Miss  Tufft  Dead  !  Her  Fiance  was 
Mr.  Jamison,  the  well  known  Editor. ' ' 

* '  What !  "  I  cried  in  horrified  amazement.  But 
Jamison  had  left  the  room,  and  I  heard  him  chat 
ting  and  laughing  softly  with  some  visitors  in  the 
press-room  outside. 

I  flung  down  the  paper  and  walked  out. 


328  A  Pleasant  Evening. 

' '  The  cold-blooded  toad  !  "  I  exclaimed  again 
and  again; — "  making  capital  out  of  his  fiancee's 
disappearance  !  Well,  I — I  'm  d — nd  !  I  knew  he 
was  a  bloodless,  heartless,  grip-penny,  but  I  never 

thought — I  never  imagined ' '  Words  failed 

me. 

Scarcely  conscious  of  what  I  did  I  drew  a 
Herald  from  my  pocket  and  saw  the  column 
entitled  :  * '  Miss  Tufft  Found  !  Identified  by  a 
Ring.  Wild  Grief  of  Mr.  Jamison,  her  Fiance." 

That  was  enough.  I  went  out  into  the  street 
and  sat  down  in  City  Hall  Park.  And,  as  I  sat 
there,  a  terrible  resolution  came  to  me  ;  I  would 
draw  that  dead  girl's  face  in  such  a  way  that  it 
would  chill  Jamison's  sluggish  blood,  I  would 
crowd  the  black  shadows  of  the  Morgue  with 
forms  and  ghastly  faces,  and  every  face  should 
bear  something  in  it  of  Jamison.  Oh,  I  'd  rouse 
him  from  his  cold  snaky  apathy  !  I'd  confront 
him  with  Death  in  such  an  awful  form,  that,  pas 
sionless,  base,  inhuman  as  he  was,  he  'd  shrink 
from  it  as  he  would  from  a  dagger  thrust.  Of 
course  I  'd  lose  my  place,  but  that  did  not  bother 
me,  for  I  had  decided  to  resign  anyway,  not  having 
a  taste  for  the  society  of  human  reptiles.  And,  as 
I  sat  there  in  the  sunny  park,  furious,  trying  to 
plan  a  picture  whose  sombre  horror  should  leave 
in  his  mind  an  ineffaceable  scar,  I  suddenly 
thought  of  the  pale  black-robed  girl  in  Central 
Park.  Could  it  be  her  poor  slender  body  that  lay 
among  the  shadows  of  the  grim  Morgue  !  If  ever 


A  Pleasant  Evening.  329 

brooding  despair  was  stamped  on  any  face,  I  had 
seen  its  print  on  hers  when  she  spoke  to  me  in 
the  Park  and  gave  me  the  letters.  The  letters  ! 
I  had  not  thought  of  them  since,  but  now  I  drew 
them  from  my  pocket  and  looked  at  the  addresses. 

' '  Curious, ' '  I  thought,  ' '  the  letters  are  still 
damp  ;  they  smell  of  salt  water  too." 

I  looked  at  the  address  again,  written  in  the 
long  fine  hand  of  an  educated  woman  who  had 
been  bred  in  a  French  convent.  Both  letters 
bore  the  same  address,  in  French  : 

"CAPTAIN  D'YNIOI,. 

(Kindness  of  a  Stranger.)" 

"Captain  d'Yniol,"  I  repeated  aloud — "con 
found  it,  I  've  heard  that  name  !  Now,  where 
the  deuce — where  in  the  name  of  all  that  's 

queer Somebody  who  had  sat  down  on 

the  bench  beside  me  placed  a  heavy  hand  on 
my  shoulder. 

It  was  the  Frenchman,  ' '  Soger  Charlie. ' ' 

' '  You  spoke  my  name, ' '  he  said  in  apathetic 
tones. 

' '  Your  name  ! ' ' 

"Captain  d'Yniol,"  he  repeated;  "it  is  my 
name. ' ' 

I  recognized  him  in  spite  of  the  black  goggles 
he  was  wearing,  and,  at  the  same  moment,  it 
flashed  into  my  mind  that  d'Yniol  was  the  name 
of  the  traitor  who  had  escaped.  Ah,  I  remem 
bered  now  ! 


330  A  Pleasant  Evening. 

"  I  am  Captain  d'Yniol,"  he  said  again,  and  I 
saw  his  fingers  closing  on  my  coat  sleeve. 

It  may  have  been  my  involuntary  movement  of 
recoil, — I  don't  know, — but  the  fellow  dropped 
my  coat  and  sat  straight  up  on  the  bench. 

"  I  am  Captain  d'Yniol,"  he  said  for  the  third 
time,  ' '  charged  with  treason  and  under  sentence 
of  death." 

' '  And  innocent  !  "  I  muttered,  before  I  was 
even  conscious  of  having  spoken.  What  was  it 
that  wrung  those  involuntary  words  from  my  lips, 
I  shall  never  know,  perhaps — but  it  was  I,  not  he, 
who  trembled,  seized  with  a  strange  agitation,  and 
it  was  I,  not  he,  whose  hand  was  stretched  forth 
impulsively,  touching  his. 

Without  a  tremor  he  took  my  hand,  pressed  it 
almost  imperceptibly,  and  dropped  it.  Then  I 
held  both  letters  toward  him,  and,  as  he  neither 
looked  at  them  nor  at  me,  I  placed  them  in  his 
hand.  Then  he  started. 

' '  Read  them, ' '  I  said,  ' '  they  are  for  you. ' ' 

' '  Letters  !  "  he  gasped  in  a  voice  that  sounded 
like  nothing  human. 

"  Yes,  they  are  for  you, — I  know  it  now " 

' '  Letters  ! — letters  directed  to  me?" 

' '  Can  you  not  see  ?  "  I  cried. 

Then  he  raised  one  frail  hand  and  drew  the 
goggles  from  his  eyes,  and,  as  I  looked,  I  saw  two 
tiny  white  specks  exactly  in  the  centre  of  both 
pupils. 

"Blind!"  I  faltered. 


A  Pleasant  Evening.  331 

"  I  have  been  unable  to  read  for  two  years,"  he 
said. 

After  a  moment  he  placed  the  tip  of  one  finger 
on  the  letters. 

"  They  are  wet,"  I  said  ;  "  shall  —  would  you 
like  to  have  me  read  them  ?  '  '  For  a  long  time 
he  sat  silently  in  the  sunshine,  fumbling  with  his 
cane,  and  I  watched  him  without  speaking.  At 
last  he  said,  '  '  Read,  Monsieur,  '  '  and  I  took  the 
letters  and  broke  the  seals. 

The  first  letter  contained  a  sheet  of  paper,  damp 
and  discoloured,  on  which  a  few  lines  were 
written  : 

"  My  darling,  I  knew  you  were  innocent  — 
Here  the  writing  ended,  but,  in  the  blur  beneath, 
I  read  :  '  '  Paris  shall  know  —  France  shall  know, 
for  at  last  I  have  the  proofs  and  I  am  coming  to 
find  you,  my  soldier,  and  to  place  them  in  your 
own  dear  brave  hands.  They  know,  now,  at  the 
War  Ministry  —  they  have  a  copy  of  the  traitor's 
confession  —  but  they  dare  not  make  it  public  — 
they  dare  not  withstand  the  popular  astonishment 
and  rage.  Therefore  I  sail  on  Monday  from  Cher 
bourg  by  the  Green  Cross  L,ine,  to  bring  you  back 
to  your  own  again,  where  you  will  stand  before 
all  the  world,  without  fear,  without  reproach." 


"  This  —  this  is  terrible  !  "  I  stammered  ; 
God  live  and  see  such  things  done  !  " 


33 2  A  Pleasant  Evening. 

But  with  his  thin  hand  he  gripped  my  arm 
again,  bidding  me  read  the  other  letter;  and  I 
shuddered  at  the  menace  in  his  voice. 

Then,  with  his  sightless  eyes  on  me,  I  drew  the 
other  letter  from  the  wet,  stained  envelope.  And 
before  I  was  aware — before  I  understood  the  pur 
port  of  what  I  saw,  I  had  read  aloud  these 
half  effaced  lines  : 

:<  The  Lorient  is  sinking — an  iceberg — mid- 
ocean — good-bye — you  are  innocent — I  love ' ' 

"  The  Lorient  /  "  I  cried  ;  "  it  was  the  French 
steamer  that  was  never  heard  from — the  Lorient 
of  the  Green  Cross  Line  !  I  had  forgotten — I " 

The  loud  crash  of  a  revolver  stunned  me  ;  my 
ears  rang  and  ached  with  it  as  I  shrank  back  from 
a  ragged  dusty  figure  that  collapsed  on  the  bench 
beside  me,  shuddered  a  moment,  and  tumbled  to 
the  asphalt  at  my  feet. 

The  trampling  of  the  eager  hard-eyed  crowd, 
the  dust  and  taint  of  powder  in  the  hot  air,  the 
harsh  alarm  of  the  ambulance  clattering  up  Mail 
Street, — these  I  remember,  as  I  knelt  there,  help 
lessly  holding  the  dead  man's  hands  in  mine. 

"  Soger  Charlie,"  mused  the  sparrow  police 
man,  "shot  his-self,  did  n't  he,  Mr.  Hilton? 
You  seen  him,  sir, — bio  wed  the  top  of  his  head 
off,  did  n't  he,  Mr.  Hilton  ?  " 

"Soger  Charlie,"  they  repeated,  "a  French 
dago  what  shot  his-self; ' '  and  the  words  echoed 
in  my  ears  long  after  the  ambulance  rattled  away, 
and  the  increasing  throng  dispersed,  sullenly,  as 


A  Pleasant  Evening.  333 

a  couple  of  policemen  cleared  a  space  around  the 
pool  of  thick  blood  on  the  asphalt. 

They  wanted  me  as  a  witness,  and  I  gave  my 
card  to  one  of  the  policemen  who  knew  me.  The 
rabble  transferred  its  fascinated  stare  to  me,  and  I 
turned  away  and  pushed  a  path  between  fright 
ened  shop  girls  and  ill-smelling  loafers,  until  I 
lost  myself  in  the  human  torrent  of  Broadway. 

The  torrent  took  me  with  it  where  it  flowed — 
East  ?  West  ? — I  did  not  notice  nor  care,  but  I 
passed  on  through  the  throng,  listless,  deadly 
weary  of  attempting  to  solve  God's  justice- 
striving  to  understand  His  purpose — His  laws — 
His  judgments  which  are  "  true  and  righteous  al 
together." 


IV. 


"  71  yi  ORE  to  be  desired  are  they  than  gold, 
/  y  I  yea,  than  much  fine  gold.  Sweeter  also 
than  honey  and  the  honey-comb  ! ' ' 

I  turned  sharply  toward  the  speaker  who  sham 
bled  at  my  elbow.  His  sunken  eyes  were  dull 
and  lustreless,  his  bloodless  face  gleamed  pallid  as 
a  death  mask  above  the  blood-red  jersey — the  em 
blem  of  the  soldiers  of  Christ. 

I  don't  know  why  I  stopped,  lingering,  but,  as 
he  passed,  I  said,  ' '  Brother,  I  also  was  meditating 
upon  God's  wisdom  and  His  testimonies." 

The  pale  fanatic  shot  a  glance  at  me,  hesitated, 
and  fell  into  my  own  pace,  walking  by  my  side. 
Under  the  peak  of  his  Salvation  Army  cap  his 
eyes  shone  in  the  shadow  with  a  strange  light. 

' '  Tell  me  more, ' '  I  said,  sinking  my  voice 
below  the  roar  of  traffic,  the  clang !  clang !  of  the 
cable-cars,  and  the  noise  of  feet  on  the  worn  pave 
ments — ' '  tell  me  of  His  testimonies. ' ' 

"  Moreover  by  them  is  Thy  servant  warned 
and  in  keeping  of  them  there  is  great  reward. 
Who  can  understand  His  errors  ?  Cleanse  Thou 
me  from  secret  faults.  Keep  back  Thy  servant 

334 


A  Pleasant  Evening.  335 

also  from  presumptuous  sins.  Let  them  not  have 
dominion  over  me.  Then  shall  I  be  upright  and 
I  shall  be  innocent  from  the  great  transgression. 
L,et  the  words  of  my  mouth  and  the  meditation  of 
my  heart  be  acceptable  in  Thy  sight, — O  I^ord  ! 
My  strength  and  my  Redeemer  !  ' ' 

"  It  is  Holy  Scripture  that  you  quote, ' '  I  said  ; 
' '  I  also  can  read  that  when  I  choose.  But  it  can 
not  clear  for  me  the  reasons — it  cannot  make  me 
understand ' 

' '  What  ?  "  he  asked,  and  muttered  to  him 
self. 

'  That,  for  instance,"  I  replied,  pointing  to  a 
cripple,  who  had  been  born  deaf  and  dumb  and 
horridly  misshapen, — a  wretched  diseased  lump  on 
the  sidewalk  below  St.  Paul's  Churchyard, — a 
sore-eyed  thing  that  mouthed  and  mowed  and 
rattled  pennies  in  a  tin  cup  as  though  the  sound 
of  copper  could  stem  the  human  pack  that  passed 
hot  on  the  scent  of  gold. 

Then  the  man  who  shambled  beside  me  turned 
and  looked  long  and  earnestly  into  my  eyes. 
And  after  a  moment  a  dull  recollection  stirred 
within  me — a  vague  something  that  seemed  like 
the  awakening  memory  of  a  past,  long,  long  for 
gotten,  dim,  dark,  too  subtle,  too  frail,  too  indefi 
nite — ah  !  the  old  feeling  that  all  men  have 
known — the  old  strange  uneasiness,  that  useless 
struggle  to  remember  when  and  where  it  all  oc 
curred  before. 

And  the  man's  head  sank  on  his  crimson  jersey, 


336  A  Pleasant  Evening. 

and  he  muttered,  muttered  to  himself  of  God  and 
love  and  compassion,  until  I  saw  that  the  fierce 
heat  of  the  city  had  touched  his  brain,  and  I  went 
away  and  left  him  prating  of  mysteries  that  none 
but  such  as  he  dare  name. 

So  I  passed  on  through  dust  and  heat ;  and  the 
hot  breath  of  men  touched  my  cheek  and  eager 
eyes  looked  into  mine.  Byes,  eyes, — that  met 
my  own  and  looked  through  them,  beyond — far 
beyond  to  where  gold  glittered  amid  the  mirage 
of  eternal  hope.  Gold  !  It  was  in  the  air  where 
the  soft  sunlight  gilded  the  floating  moats,  it  was 
under  foot  in  the  dust  that  the  sun  made  gilt,  it 
glimmered  from  every  window  pane  where  the 
long  red  beams  struck  golden  sparks  above  the 
gasping  gold-hunting  hordes  of  Wall  Street. 

High,  high,  in  the  deepening  sky  the  tall  build 
ings  towered,  and  the  breeze  from  the  bay  lifted 
the  sun-dyed  flags  of  commerce  until  they  waved 
above  the  turmoil  of  the  hives  below  —  waved 
courage  and  hope  and  strength  to  those  who 
lusted  after  gold. 

The  sun  dipped  low  behind  Castle  William  as  I 
turned  listlessly  into  the  Battery,  and  the  long 
straight  shadows  of  the  trees  stretched  away  over 
greensward  and  asphalt  walk. 

Already  the  electric  lights  were  glimmering 
among  the  foliage  although  the  bay  shimmered 
like  polished  brass  and  the  topsails  of  the  ships 
glowed  with  a  deeper  hue,  where  the  red  sun  rays 
fall  athwart  the  rigging. 


A  Pleasant  Evening.  337 

Old  men  tottered  along  the  sea-wall,  tapping 
the  asphalt  with  worn  canes,  old  women  crept  to 
and  fro  in  the  coming  twilight, — old  women  who 
carried  baskets  that  gaped  for  charity  or  bulged 
with  mouldy  stuffs, — food,  clothing  ? — I  could  not 
tell  ;  I  did  not  care  to  know. 

The  heavy  thunder  from  the  parapets  of  Castle 
William  died  away  over  the  placid  bay,  the  last 
red  arm  of  the  sun  shot  up  out  of  the  sea,  and 
wavered  and  faded  into  the  sombre  tones  of  the 
afterglow.  Then  came  the  night,  timidly  at  first, 
touching  sky  and  water  with  grey  fingers,  folding 
the  foliage  into  soft  massed  shapes,  creeping  on 
ward,  onward,  more  swiftly  now,  until  colour  and 
form  had  gone  from  all  the  earth  and  the  world 
was  a  world  of  shadows. 

And,  as  I  sat  there  on  the  dusky  sea-wall, 
gradually  the  bitter  thoughts  faded  and  I  looked 
out  into  the  calm  night  with  something  of  that 
peace  that  comes  to  all  when  day  is  ended. 

The  death  at  my  very  elbow  of  the  poor  blind 
wretch  in  the  Park  had  left  a  shock,  but  now  my 
nerves  relaxed  their  tension  and  I  began  to  think 
about  it  all, — about  the  letters  and  the  strange 
woman  who  had  given  them  to  me.  I  wondered 
where  she  had  found  them, — whether  they  really 
were  carried  by  some  vagrant  current  in  to  the 
shore  from  the  wreck  of  the  fated  Lorieni. 

Nothing  but  these  letters  had  human  eyes  en 
countered  from  the  Lorient,  although  we  believed 
that  fire  or  berg  had  been  her  portion  ;  for  there 


338  A  Pleasant  Evening. 

had  been  no  storms  when  the  Lorient  steamed 
away  from  Cherbourg. 

And  what  of  the  pale-faced  girl  in  black  who 
had  given  these  letters  to  me,  saying  that  my 
own  heart  would  teach  me  where  to  place 
them  ? 

I  felt  in  my  pockets  for  the  letters  where  I  had 
thrust  them  all  crumpled  and  wet.     They  were 
there,  and  I  decided  to  turn  them  over  to  the 
police.     Then  I  thought  of  Cusick  and  the  City 
Hall  Park  and  these  set  my  mind  running  on 
Jamison  and  my  own  work, — ah  !  I  had  forgotten 
that, — I  had  forgotten  that  I  had  sworn  to  stir 
Jamison's  cold,  sluggish  blood  !     Trading  on  his 
fiancee's  reported  suicide, — or   murder  !      True, 
he  had  told  me  that  he  was  satisfied  that  the  body 
at  the  Morgue  was  not  Miss  Tufft's  because  the 
ring  did  not  correspond  with  his  fiancee's  ring. 
But  what  sort  of  a  man  was  that  ! — to  go  crawling 
and  nosing  about  morgues  and  graves  for  a  full- 
page  illustration  which   might  sell  a  few  extra 
thousand  papers.      I  had  never  known  he  was 
such  a  man.     It  was  strange  too — for  that  was 
not    the    sort    of   illustration    that    the    Weekly 
used  ;  it  was  against  all  precedent — against  the 
whole  policy  of  the  paper.     He  would  lose  a  hun 
dred  subscribers  where  he  would  gain  one  by  such 
work. 

II  The  callous  brute  !  "   I  muttered  to  myself, 
"  I  '11  wake  him  up— I  '11— 

I  sat  straight  up  on  the  bench  and  looked  stead- 


A  Pleasant  Evening.  339 

ily  at  a  figure  which  was  moving  toward  me 
under  the  spluttering  electric  light. 

It  was  the  woman  I  had  met  in  the  Park. 

She  came  straight  up  to  me,  her  pale  face 
gleaming  like  marble  in  the  dark,  her  slim  hands 
outstretched. 

"  I  have  been  looking  for  you  all  day — all 
day,"  she  said,  in  the  same  low  thrilling  tones,— 
' '  I  want  the  letters  back ;  have  you  them 
here?" 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  I  have  them  here, — take  them 
in  Heaven's  name  ;  they  have  done  enough  evil 
for  one  day  ! ' ' 

She  took  the  letters  from  my  hand  ;  I  saw  the 
ring,  made  of  the  double  serpents,  flashing  on 
her  slim  finger,  and  I  stepped  closer,  and  looked 
her  in  the  eyes. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  ?  My  name  is  of  no  importance  to  you, ' ' 
she  answered. 

' '  You  are  right, ' '  I  said,  * '  I  do  not  care  to 
know  your  name.  That  ring  of  yours — 

"  What  of  my  ring  ?  "  she  murmured. 

"  Nothing, — a  dead  woman  lying  in  the  Morgue 
wears  such  a  ring.  Do  you  know  what  your 
letters  have  done  ?  No  ?  Well  I  read  them  to  a 
miserable  wretch  and  he  blew  his  brains  out  ! ' ' 

' '  You  read  them  to  a  man ! ' ' 

' '  I  did.     He  killed  himself. ' ' 

"  Who  was  that  man  ?" 

"  Captain  d'Yniol " 


34-O  A  Pleasant  Evening. 

With  something  between  a  sob  and  a  laugh  she 
seized  my  hand  and  covered  it  with  kisses,  and  I, 
astonished  and  angry,  pulled  my  hand  away  from 
her  cold  lips  and  sat  down  on  the  bench. 

"  You  need  n't  thank  me,"  I  said  sharply;  "  if 
I  had  known  that, — but  no  matter.  Perhaps 
after  all  the  poor  devil  is  better  off  somewhere 
in  other  regions  with  his  sweetheart  who  was 
drowned, — yes,  I  imagine  he  is.  He  was  blind 
and  ill, — and  broken-hearted." 

"  Blind  ?  "  she  asked  gently. 

' '  Yes.     Did  you  know  him  ?  ' ' 

"  I  knew  him." 

"  And  his  sweetheart,  Aline  ?  " 

"  Aline,"  she  repeated  softly, — "  she  is  dead. 
I  come  to  thank  you  in  her  name." 

"  For  what  ?— for  his  death  ?  " 

"  Ah,  yes,  for  that." 

"  Where  did  you  get  those  letters  ?  "  I  asked 
her,  suddenly. 

She  did  not  answer,  but  stood  fingering  the  wet 
letters. 

Before  I  could  speak  again  she  moved  away 
into  the  shadows  of  the  trees,  lightly,  silently, 
and  far  down  the  dark  walk  I  saw  her  diamond 
flashing. 

Grimly  brooding,  I  rose  and  passed  through 
the  Battery  to  the  steps  of  the  Elevated  Road. 
These  I  climbed,  bought  my  ticket,  and  stepped 
out  to  the  damp  platform.  When  a  train  came  I 
crowded  in  with  the  rest,  still  pondering  on  my 


A  Pleasant  Evening.  341 

vengeance,  feeling  and  believing  that  I  was  to 
scourge  the  conscience  of  the  man  who  speculated 
on  death. 

And  at  last  the  train  stopped  at  28th  Street,  and 
I  hurried  out  and  down  the  steps  and  away  to  the 
Morgue. 

When  I  entered  the  Morgue,  Skelton,  the 
keeper,  was  standing  before  a  slab  that  glistened 
faintly  under  the  wretched  gas  jets.  He  heard 
my  footsteps,  and  turned  around  to  see  who  was 
coming.  Then  he  nodded,  saying:  "  Mr.  Hilton, 
just  take  a  look  at  this  here  stiff — I  '11  be  back 
in  a  moment — this  is  the  one  that  all  the  papers 
take  to  be  Miss  Tufft,—  but  they  're  all  off, 
because  this  stiff  has  been  here  now  for  two 
weeks." 

I  drew  out  my  sketching-block  and  pencils. 

"  Which  is  it,  Skelton  ?  "  I  asked,  fumbling  for 
my  rubber. 

"  This  one,  Mr.  Hilton,  the  girl  what 's  smilin'. 
Picked  up  off  Sandy  Hook,  too.  lyooks  as  if  she 
was  asleep,  eh  ?  " 

"  What 's  she  got  in  her  hand — clenched  tight  ? 
Oh, — a  letter.  Turn  up  the  gas,  Skelton,  I  want 
to  see  her  face." 

The  old  man  turned  the  gas  jet,  and  the  flame 
blazed  and  whistled  in  the  damp,  fetid  air.  Then 
suddenly  my  eyes  fell  on  the  dead. 

Rigid,  scarcely  breathing,  I  stared  at  the  ring, 
made  of  two  twisted  serpents  set  with  a  great  dia 
mond, — I  saw  the  wet  letters  crushed  in  her 


342  A  Pleasant  Evening. 

slender  hand, — I  looked,  and — God  help  me  ! — I 
looked  upon  the  dead  face  of  the  girl  with  whom  I 
had  been  speaking  on  the  Battery ! 

"  Dead  for  a  month  at  least,"  said  Skelton, 
calmly. 

Then,  as  I  felt  my  senses  leaving  me,  I  screamed 
out,  and  at  the  same  instant  somebody  from  be 
hind  seized  my  shoulder  and  shook  me  savagely 
— shook  me  until  I  opened  my  eyes  again  and 
gasped  and  coughed. 

"  Now  then,  young  feller!  "  said  a  Park  police 
man  bending  over  me,  "  if  you  go  to  sleep  on  a 
bench,  somebody  '11  lift  your  watch  !  " 

I  turned,  rubbing  my  eyes  desperately. 

Then  it  was  all  a  dream — and  no  shrinking  girl 
had  come  to  me  with  damp  letters, — I  had  not 
gone  to  the  office — there  was  no  such  person  as 
Miss  Tufft, — Jamison  was  not  an  unfeeling  vil 
lain, — no,  indeed  ! — he  treated  us  all  much  better 
than  we  deserved,  and  he  was  kind  and  generous 
too.  And  the  ghastly  suicide  !  Thank  God 
that  also  was  a  myth, — and  the  Morgue  and  the 
Battery  at  night  where  that  pale-faced  girl  had 
—ugh  ! 

I  felt  for  my  sketch-block,  found  it;  turned  the 
pages  of  all  the  animals  that  I  had  sketched,  the 
hippopotami,  the  buffalo,  the  tigers — ah  !  where 
was  that  sketch  in  which  I  had  made  the  woman 
in  shabby  black  the  principal  figure,  with  the 
brooding  vultures  all  around  and  the  crowd  in  the 
sunshine — ?  It  was  gone. 


A  Pleasant  Evening.  343 

I  hunted  everywhere,  in  every  pocket.  It  was 
gone. 

At  last  I  rose  and  moved  along  the  narrow 
asphalt  path  in  the  falling  twilight. 

And  as  I  turned  into  the  broader  walk,  I  was 
aware  of  a  group,  a  policeman  holding  a  lantern, 
some  gardeners,  and  a  knot  of  loungers  gathered 
about  something, — a  dark  mass  on  the  ground. 

"  Found  'em  just  so,"  one  of  the  gardeners  was 
saying,  "  better  not  touch  'em  until  the  coroner 
comes. ' ' 

The  policeman  shifted  his  bull's-eye  a  little ;  the 
rays  fell  on  two  faces,  on  two  bodies,  half  sup 
ported  against  a  park  bench.  On  the  finger  of 
the  girl  glittered  a  splendid  diamond,  set  between 
the  fangs  of  two  gold  serpents.  The  man  had 
shot  himself;  he  clasped  two  wet  letters  in  his 
hand.  The  girl' s  clothing  and  hair  were  wringing 
wet,  and  her  face  was  the  face  of  a  drowned  person. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  the  policeman,  looking  at  me; 
' '  you  seem  to  know  these  two  people — by  your 
looks " 

' ' I  never  saw  them  before, ' '  I  gasped,  and 
walked  on,  trembling  in  every  nerve. 

For  among  the  folds  of  her  shabby  black  dress 
I  had  noticed  the  end  of  a  paper, — my  sketch  that 
I  had  missed  1 


THE  MAN  AT  THE  NEXT  TABLE. 


Awed  and  afraid  I  cross  the  border-land. 

Oh,  who  am  I  that  I  dare  enter  here 

Where  the  great  artists  of  the  world  have  trod  ?  " 


THE  MAN  AT  THE  NEXT 
TABLE. 


"The  caricaturist  is  a  freebooter.     Public  tolerance 
grants  him  letters  of  marque.     .     .     . 

MARMADUKE  HUMPHREY. 

"  Ainsi  rien  ne  se  passe,  rien  de  vraiment  immortel  et 
d'£ternellement  doux  que  dans  notre  ame." 


I. 


IT  was  high  noon  in  the  city  of  Antwerp.    From 
slender  steeples  floated  the  mellow  music  of 
the  Flemish  bells,   and  in  the  spire  of  the 
great   cathedral   across  the  square  the  cracked 
chimes  clashed  discords  until  my  ears  ached. 

When  the  fiend  in  the  cathedral  had  jerked  the 
last  tuneless  clang  from  the  chimes,  I  removed  my 
fingers  from  my  ears  and  sat  down  at  one  of  the 
iron  tables  in  the  court.  A  waiter  with  his  face 
shaved  blue,  brought  me  a  bottle  of  Rhine  wine, 
a  tumbler  of  cracked  ice,  and  a  siphon. 

' '  Does  Monsieur  desire  anything  else  ?  "  he 
inquired. 

"  Yes — the  head  of  the  cathedral  bell-ringer; 
bring  it  with  vinegar  and  potatoes, ' '  I  said,  bit- 
347 


348        The  Man  at  the  Next  Table. 

terly.  Then  I  began  to  ponder  on  my  great-aunt 
and  the  Crimson  Diamond. 

The  white  walls  of  the  Hotel  St.  Antoine  rose 
in  a  rectangle  around  the  sunny  court,  casting 
long  shadows  across  the  basin  of  the  fountain. 
The  strip  of  blue  overhead  was  cloudless.  Spar 
rows  twittered  under  the  eaves ;  the  yellow  awn 
ings  fluttered,  the  flowers  swayed  in  the  summer 
breeze,  and  the  jet  of  the  fountain  splashed  among 
the  water  plants.  On  the  sunny  side  of  the  piazza 
the  tables  were  vacant  ;  on  the  shady  side,  I  was 
lazily  aware  that  the  tables  behind  me  were  occu 
pied,  but  I  was  indifferent  as  to  their  occupants, 
partly  because  I  shunned  all  tourists,  partly  be 
cause  I  was  thinking  of  my  great-aunt. 

Most  old  ladies  are  eccentric,  but  there  is  a 
limit,  and  my  great-aunt  had  overstepped  it.  I 
had  believed  her  to  be  wealthy  ; — she  died  bank 
rupt.  Still,  I  knew  there  was  one  thing  she  did 
possess,  and  that  was  the  famous  (<  Crimson 
Diamond."  Now,  of  course,  you  know  who  my 
great-aunt  was. 

Excepting  the  Koh-i-noor,  and  the  Regent,  this 
enormous  and  unique  stone  was,  as  everybody 
knows,  the  most  valuable  gem  in  existence.  Any 
ordinary  person  would  have  placed  that  diamond 
in  a  safe-deposit.  My  great-aunt  did  nothing  of 
the  kind.  She  kept  it  in  a  small  velvet  bag, 
which  she  carried  about  her  neck.  She  never 
took  it  off,  but  wore  it  dangling  openly  on  her 
heavy  silk  gown. 


The  Man  at  the  Next  Table.       349 

In  this  same  bag  she  also  carried  dried  catnip 
leaves  of  which  she  was  inordinately  fond.  No 
body  but  myself,  her  only  living  relative,  knew 
that  the  Crimson  Diamond  lay  among  the  sprigs 
of  catnip  in  the  little  velvet  bag. 

"  Harold,"  she  would  say,  "  do  you  think  I  'm 
a  fool  ?  If  I  place  the  Crimson  Diamond  in  any 
safe-deposit  vault  in  New  York,  somebody  would 
steal  it  sooner  or  later. ' '  Then  she  would  nibble 
a  sprig  of  catnip  and  peer  cunningly  at  me.  I 
loathed  the  odour  of  catnip  and  she  knew  it.  I 
also  loathed  cats.  This  also  she  knew  and  of 
course  surrounded  herself  with  a  dozen.  Poor 
old  lady  !  On  the  ist  day  of  March,  1896,  she 
was  found  dead  in  her  bed  in  her  apartments  at 
the  Waldorf.  The  doctor  said  she  died  from 
natural  causes.  The  only  other  occupant  of  her 
sleeping  room  was  a  cat.  The  cat  fled  when  we 
broke  open  the  door,  and  I  heard  that  she  was 
received  and  cherished  by  some  people  in  a  neigh 
boring  apartment. 

Now,  although  my  great- aunt's  death  was  due 
to  purely  natural  causes,  there  was  one  very  start 
ling  and  disagreeable  feature  of  the  case.  The 
velvet  bag,  containing  the  Crimson  Diamond, 
had  disappeared.  Every  inch  of  the  apartment 
was  searched,  the  floors  torn  up,  the  walls  dis 
mantled,  but  the  Crimson  Diamond  had  van 
ished.  Chief  of  Police  Conlin  detailed  four  of 
his  best  men  on  the  case,  and  as  I  had  nothing 
better  to  do,  I  enrolled  myself  as  a  volunteer.  I 


350        The  Man  at  the  Next  Table. 

also  offered  $25, ooo  reward  for  the  recovery  of  the 
gem.  All  New  York  was  agog. 

The  case  seemed  hopeless  enough,  although 
there  were  five  of  us  after  the  thief.  McFarlane 
was  in  L,ondon,  and  had  been  for  a  month,  but 
Scotland  Yard  could  give  him  no  help,  and  the 
last  I  heard  of  him  he  was  roaming  through  Sur 
rey  after  a  man  with  a  white  spot  in  his  hair. 
Harrison  had  gone  to  Paris.  He  kept  writing  me 
that  clues  were  plenty  and  the  scent  hot,  but  as 
Dennet,  in  Berlin,  and  Clancy,  in  Vienna,  wrote 
me  the  same  thing,  I  began  to  doubt  these  gentle 
men' s  ability. 

' '  You  say, ' '  I  answered  Harrison,  '  *  that  the 
fellow  is  a  Frenchman,  and  that  he  is  now  con 
cealed  in  Paris  ;  but  Dennet  writes  me  by  the 
same  mail  that  the  thief  is  undoubtedly  a  German, 
and  was  seen  yesterday  in  Berlin.  To-day  I 
received  a  letter  from  Clancy,  assuring  me  that 
Vienna  holds  the  culprit,  and  that  he  is  an  Aus 
trian  from  Trieste.  Now  for  Heaven's  sake," 
I  ended,  ' ( let  me  alone  and  stop  writing  me  letters 
until  you  have  something  to  write  about. ' ' 

The  night  clerk  of  the  Waldorf  had  furnished 
us  with  our  first  clue.  On  the  night  of  my 
aunt's  death  he  had  seen  a  tall,  grave-faced  man, 
hurriedly  leave  the  hotel.  As  the  man  passed 
the  desk,  he  removed  his  hat  and  mopped  his 
forehead,  and  the  night  clerk  noticed  that  in  the 
middle  of  his  head  there  was  a  patch  of  hair,  as 
white  as  snow. 


The  Man  at  the  Next  Table.       35 1 

We  worked  this  clue  for  all  it  was  worth,  and, 
a  month  later,  I  received  a  cable  dispatch  from 
Paris,  saying  that  a  man,  answering  to  the 
description  of  the  Waldorf  suspect,  had  offered  an 
enormous  crimson  diamond  for  sale  to  a  jeweller 
in  the  Palais  Royal.  Unfortunately  the  fellow 
took  fright  and  disappeared  before  the  jeweller 
could  send  for  the  police,  and  since  that  time, 
McFarlane  in  lyondon,  Harrison  in  Paris,  Dennet 
in  Berlin,  and  Clancy  in  Vienna,  had  been  chas 
ing  men  with  white  patches  on  their  hair  until  no 
gray-headed  patriarch  in  Burope  was  free  from 
suspicion.  I  myself  had  sleuthed  it  through  Kng- 
land,  France,  Holland  and  Belgium,  and  now  I 
found  myself  in  Antwerp  at  the  Hotel  St.  Antoine 
without  a  clue  that  promised  anything  except 
another  outrage  on  some  respectable  white-haired 
citizen.  The  case  seemed  hopeless  enough,  un 
less  the  thief  tried  again  to  sell  the  gem.  Here 
was  our  only  hope,  for,  unless  he  cut  the  stone 
into  smaller  ones,  he  had  no  more  chance  of  sell 
ing  it  than  he  would  have  had  if  he  had  stolen  the 
Venus  of  Milo  and  peddled  her  about  the  rue  de 
Seine.  Kven  were  he  to  cut  up  the  stone,  no 
respectable  gem  collector  or  jeweller  would  buy 
a  crimson  diamond  without  first  notifying  me  ; 
for  although  a  few  red  stones  are  known  to  collec 
tors,  the  colour  of  the  Crimson  Diamond  was  abso 
lutely  unique,  and  there  was  little  probability  of 
an  honest  mistake. 

Thinking  of  all  these  things  I  sat  sipping  my 


352        The  Man  at  the  Next  Table. 

Rhine  wine  in  the  shadow  of  the  yellow  awnings. 
A  large  white  cat  came  sauntering  by  and  stopped 
in  front  of  me  to  perform  her  toilet  until  I  wished 
she  would  go  away.  After  a  while  she  sat  up, 
licked  her  whiskers,  yawned  once  or  twice,  and 
was  about  to  stroll  on,  when,  catching  sight  of  me, 
she  stopped  short  and  looked  me  squarely  in  the 
face.  I  returned  the  attention  with  a  scowl  because 
I  wished  to  discourage  any  advances  towards  so 
cial  intercourse  which  she  might  contemplate  ;  but 
after  a  while  her  steady  gaze  disconcerted  me,  and 
I  turned  to  my  Rhine  wine.  A  few  minutes  later 
I  looked  up  again.  The  cat  was  still  eyeing  me. 

' '  Now  what  the  devil  is  the  matter  with  the 
animal,"  I  muttered,  "  does  she  recognize  in  me 
a  relative  ?  ' ' 

' '  Perhaps, ' '  observed  a  man  at  the  next  table. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  "  I  demanded. 

* '  What  I  say, ' '  replied  the  man  at  the  next  table. 

I  looked  him  full  in  the  face.  He  was  old  and 
bald  and  appeared  weak-minded.  His  age  pro 
tected  his  impudence.  I  turned  my  back  on  him. 
Then  my  eyes  fell  on  the  cat  again.  She  was  still 
gazing  earnestly  at  me. 

Disgusted  that  she  should  take  such  pointed 
public  notice  of  me,  I  wondered  whether  other 
people  saw  it ;  I  wondered  whether  there  was 
anything  peculiar  in  my  own  personal  appear 
ance.  How  hard  the  creature  stared.  It  was 
most  embarrassing. 

"What  has  got  into  that  cat?"   I  thought. 


The  Man  at  the  Next  Table.       353 

"  It  's  sheer  impudence.  It  's  an  intrusion,  and 
I  won't  stand  it  !  "  The  cat  did  not  move.  I 
tried  to  stare  her  out  of  countenance.  It  was 
useless.  There  was  aggressive  inquiry  in  her 
yellow  eyes.  A  sensation  of  uneasiness  began  to 
steal  over  me — a  sensation  of  embarrassment  not 
unmixed  with  awe.  All  cats  looked  alike  to  me, 
and  yet  there  was  something  about  this  one  that 
bothered  me — something  that  I  could  not  explain 
to  myself,  but  which  began  to  occupy  me. 

She  looked  familiar — this  Antwerp  cat.  An 
odd  sense  of  having  seen  her  before — of  having 
been  well  acquainted  with  her  in  former  years 
slowly  settled  in  my  mind,  and,  although  I  could 
never  remember  the  time  when  I  had  not  detested 
cats,  I  was  almost  convinced  that  my  relations 
with  this  Antwerp  tabby  had  once  been  intimate 
if  not  cordial.  I  looked  more  closely  at  the  ani 
mal.  Then  an  idea  struck  me, — an  idea  which 
persisted  and  took  definite  shape  in  spite  of  me. 
I  strove  to  escape  from  it,  to  evade  it,  to  stifle  and 
smother  it ;  an  inward  struggle  ensued  which 
brought  the  perspiration  in  beads  upon  my 
cheeks, — a  struggle  short,  sharp,  decisive.  It 
was  useless — useless  to  try  to  put  it  from  me, — 
this  idea  so  wretchedly  bizarre,  so  grotesque  and 
fantastic,  so  utterly  inane, — it  was  useless  to  deny 
that  the  cat  bore  a  distinct  resemblance  to  my 
great-aunt  ! 

I  gazed  at  her  in  horror.  What  enormous  eyes 
the  creature  had  ! 


354        The  Man  at  the  Next  Table. 

1 '  Blood  is  thicker  than  water, ' '  said  the  man  at 
the  next  table. 

"  What  does  he  mean  by  that  ?  "  I  muttered, 
angrily  swallowing  a  tumbler  of  Rhine  wine  and 
seltzer.  But  I  did  not  turn.  What  was  the  use  ? 

"  Chattering  old  imbecile,"  I  added  to  my 
self,  and  struck  a  match,  for  my  cigar  was  out; 
but  as  I  raised  the  match  to  relight  it,  I  encoun 
tered  the  cat's  eyes  again.  I  could  not  enjoy  my 
cigar  with  the  animal  staring  at  me,  but  I  was 
justly  indignant,  and  I  did  not  intend  to  be 
routed.  ' '  The  idea  !  forced  to  leave  for  a  cat  !  ' ' 
I  sneered,  "  we  will  see  who  will  be  the  one  to 
go  !  "  I  tried  to  give  her  a  jet  of  seltzer  from  the 
siphon,  but  the  bottle  was  too  nearly  empty  to 
carry  far.  Then  I  attempted  to  lure  her  nearer, 
calling  her  in  French,  German,  and  English,  but 
she  did  not  stir.  I  did  not  know  the  Flemish  for 
"cat." 

"She's  got  a  name,  and  won't  come,"  I 
thought.  "  Now,  what  under  the  sun  can  I 
call  her?" 

"  Aunty,"  suggested  the  man  at  the  next  table. 

I  sat  perfectly  still.  Could  that  man  have  an 
swered  my  thoughts  ? — for  I  had  not  spoken 
aloud.  Of  course  not — it  was  a  coincidence, — but 
a  very  disgusting  one. 

"  Aunty,"  I  repeated  mechanically,  "  aunty, 
aunty — good  gracious,  how  horribly  human  that 
cat  looks  !  "  Then  somehow  or  other,  Shake 
speare's  words  crept  into  my  head  and  I  found 


The  Man  at  the  Next  Table.        355 

myself  repeating  :  "  the  soul  of  his  grandam 
might  happily  inhabit  a  bird  ;  the  soul  of  his 
grandam  might  happily  inhabit  a  bird  ;  the  soul 
of — nonsense!"  I  growled  —  "it  isn't  printed 
correctly  !  One  might  possibly  say,  speaking  in 
poetical  metaphor,  that  the  soul  of  a  bird  might 
happily  inhabit  one's  grandam—  I  stopped 
short,  flushing  painfully.  ' '  What  awful  rot  !  " 
I  murmured,  and  lighted  another  cigar.  The  cat 
was  still  staring  ;  the  cigar  went  out.  I  grew 
more  and  more  nervous.  ' '  What  rot  !  "  I  re 
peated.  "  Pythagoras  must  have  been  an  ass, 
but  I  do  believe  that  there  are  plenty  of  asses 
alive  to-da}^  who  swallow  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  Who  knows,"  sighed  the  man  at  the  next 
table,  and  I  sprang  to  my  feet  and  wheeled  about. 
But  I  only  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  pair  of  frayed 
coat-tails  and  a  bald  head  vanishing  into  the 
dining-room.  I  sat  down  again,  thoroughly 
indignant.  A  moment  later  the  cat  got  up  and 
went  away. 


n. 


AYIylGHT  was  fading  in  the  city  of  Ant- 
werp.  Down  into  the  sea  sank  the  sun, 
tinting  the  vast  horizon  with  flakes  of 
crimson,  and  touching  with  rich  deep  undertones 
the  tossing  waters  of  the  Scheldt.  Its  glow  fell 
like  a  rosy  mantle  over  red-tiled  roofs  and  mead 
ows  ;  and  through  the  haze  the  spires  of  twenty 
churches  pierced  the  air  like  sharp,  gilded  flames. 
To  the  west  and  south  the  green  plains,  over 
which  the  Spanish  armies  tramped  so  long  ago, 
stretched  away  until  they  met  the  sky;  the  en 
chantment  of  the  afterglow  had  turned  old  Ant 
werp  into  fairyland;  and  sea  and  sky  and  plain 
were  beautiful  and  vague  as  the  night  mists  float 
ing  in  the  moats  below. 

Along  the  sea-wall  from  the  Rubens  Gate,  all 
Antwerp  strolled,  and  chattered,  and  flirted  and 
sipped  their  Flemish  wines  from  slender  Flemish 
glasses  or  gossiped  over  krugs  of  foaming  beer. 

From  the  Scheldt  came  the  cries  of  sailors,  the 
creaking  of  cordage,  and  the  puff !  puff !  of  the 
ferry-boats.  On  the  bastions  of  the  fortress  oppo 
site  a  bugler  was  standing.  Twice  the  mellow 
notes  of  the  bugle  came  faintly  over  the  water, 
356 


The  Man  at  the  Next  Table.       357 

then  a  great  gun  thundered  from  the  ramparts, 
and  the  Belgian  flag  fluttered  along  the  lanyards 
to  the  ground. 

I  leaned  listlessly  on  the  sea-wall  and  looked 
down  at  the  Scheldt  below.  A  battery  of  artil 
lery  was  embarking  for  the  fortress.  The  tub- 
like  transport  lay  hissing  and  whistling  in  the  slip, 
and  the  stamping  of  horses,  the  rumbling  of  gun 
and  caisson,  and  the  sharp  cries  of  the  officers 
came  plainly  to  the  ear. 

When  the  last  caisson  was  aboard  and  stowed, 
and  the  last  trooper  had  sprung  jingling  to  the 
deck,  the  transport  puffed  out  into  the  Scheldt, 
and  I  turned  away  through  the  throng  of  prom- 
enaders,  and  found  a  little  table  on  the  terrace, 
just  outside  of  the  pretty  cafe.  And  as  I  sat 
down,  I  became  aware  of  a  girl  at  the  next  table 
— a  girl  all  in  white — the  most  ravishingly  and 
distractingly  pretty  girl  that  I  had  ever  seen.  In 
the  agitation  of  the  moment  I  forgot  that  I  was  a 
woman-hater,  I  forgot  my  name,  my  fortune,  my 
aunt,  and  the  Crimson  Diamond — all  these  I  for 
got  in  a  purely  human  impulse  to  see  clearly ;  and 
to  that  end  I  removed  my  monocle  from  my  left 
eye.  Some  moments  later  I  came  to  myself  and 
feebly  replaced  it.  It  was  too  late;  the  mischief 
was  done.  I  was  not  aware  at  first  of  the  exact 
state  of  my  feelings, — for  I  had  never  before  been 
in  love — but  I  did  know  that  at  her  request  I 
would  have  been  proud  to  stand  on  my  head,  or 
turn  a  flip-flap  into  the  Scheldt. 


358        The  Man  at  the  Next  Table. 

I  did  not  stare  at  her,  but  I  managed  to  see  her 
most  of  the  time  when  her  eyes  were  in  another 
direction.  I  found  myself  drinking  something 
which  a  waiter  brought  presumably  upon  an  order 
which  I  did  not  remember  having  given.  L,ater 
I  noticed  that  it  was  a  loathsome  drink  which  the 
Belgians  call  ' '  American  Grog, ' '  but  I  swallowed 
it  and  lighted  a  cigarette.  As  the  fragrant  cloud 
rose  in  the  air,  a  voice,  which  I  recognized  with  a 
chill,  broke  into  my  dream  of  enchantment. 
Could  he  have  been  there  all  the  while, — there 
sitting  beside  that  vision  in  white  ?  His  hat  was 
off,  and  the  ocean  breezes  whispered  about  his 
bald  head.  His  frayed  coat-tails  were  folded 
carefully  over  his  knees,  and  between  the  thumb 
and  forefinger  of  his  left  hand  he  balanced  a  bad 
cigar.  He  looked  at  me  in  a  mildly  cheerful  way, 
and  said, ' '  I  know  now. ' ' 

' (  Know  what  ?  "  I  asked,  thinking  it  better  to 
humour  him,  for  I  was  convinced  that  he  was  mad. 

' '  I  know  why  cats  bite. ' ' 

This  was  startling.  I  had  n't  the  vaguest  idea 
what  to  say. 

' '  I  know  why, ' '  he  repeated ;  ' '  can  you  guess 
why  ? ' '  There  was  a  covert  tone  of  triumph  in 
his  voice  and  he  smiled  encouragement.  ' '  Come, 
try  and  guess, ' '  he  urged. 

I  was  uneasy,  but  I  told  him  with  stiff  civility 
that  I  was  unequal  to  problems. 

"  Ivisten,  young  man,"  he  continued,  folding 
his  coat-tails  closely  about  his  legs — <(  try  to 


The  Man  at  the  Next  Table.       359 

reason  it  out;  why  should  cats  bite  ?  Don't  you 
know?  I  do." 

He  looked  at  me  anxiously. 

' '  You  take  no  interest  in  this  problem  ?  "  he 
demanded. 

"  Oh,  yes." 

' '  Then  why  do  you  not  ask  me  why  ?  "  he 
said,  looking  vaguely  disappointed. 

' '  Well, ' '  I  said  in  desperation,  '  *  why  do  cats 
bite  ?— hang  it  all  !  "  I  thought,  "  it  's  like  a 
burnt-cork  show,  and  I  'm  Mr.  Bones  and  he  's 
Tambo  !  " 

Then  he  smiled  gently.  "  Young  man,"  he 
said,  "  cats  bite  because  they  feed  on  cat- nip.  I 
have  reasoned  it  out." 

I  stared  at  him  in  blank  astonishment.  Was 
this  benevolent  looking  old  party  poking  fun  at 
me  ?  Was  he  paying  me  up  for  the  morning's 
snub  ?  Was  he  a  malignant  and  revengeful  old 
party,  or  was  he  merely  feeble-minded  ?  Who 
might  he  be  ?  What  was  he  doing  here  in  Ant 
werp — what  was  he  doing  now ! — for  the  bald  one 
had  turned  familiarly  to  the  beautiful  girl  in  white. 

*  *  Elsie, ' '  he  said,  ' '  do  you  feel  chilly  ?  ' '  The 
girl  shook  her  head. 

"  Not  in  the  least,  papa." 

"  Good  Lord  !  "  I  thought—"  her  father  !  " 

"  I  have  been  to  the  Zoo  to-day,"  announced 
the  bald  one,  turning  toward  me. 

"  Ah,  indeed,"  I  observed, — "  er — I  trust  you 
enjoyed  it." 


360        The  Man  at  the  Next  Table. 

' c  I  have  been  contemplating  the  apes, ' '  he  con 
tinued,  dreamily.  * '  Yes,  contemplating  the 
apes." 

I  said  nothing,  but  tried  to  look  interested. 

"  Yes,  the  apes,"  he  murmured,  fixing  his 
mild  eyes  on  me.  Then  he  leaned  toward  me 
confidentially  and  whispered;  "  can  you  tell  me 
what  a  monkey  thinks  ?  ' ' 

"  I  can  not,"  I  replied,  sharply. 

"  Ah,"  he  sighed,  sinking  back  in  his  chair, 
and  patting  the  slender  hand  of  the  girl  beside 
him,  * '  ah,  who  can  tell  what  a  monkey  thinks  ?  ' ' 
His  gentle  face  lulled  my  suspicions,  and  I  replied 
very  gravely;  "  who  can  tell  whether  they  think 
at  all?" 

' '  True,  true  !  Who  can  tell  whether  they 
think  at  all ;  and  if  they  do  think,  ah  !  who  can 
tell  what  they  think  ?  " 

"  But,"  I  began,  "  if  you  can't  tell  whether 
they  think  at  all,  what 's  the  use  of  trying  to 
conjecture  what  they  would  think  if  they  did 
think?" 

He  raised  his  hand  in  deprecation.  * '  Ah,  it  is 
exactly  that  which  is  of  such  absorbing  interest, 
exactly  that  !  It  is  the  abstruseness  of  the  prop 
osition  which  stimulates  research — which  stirs 
profoundly  the  brain  of  the  thinking  world.  The 
question  is  of  vital  and  instant  importance.  Pos 
sibly  you  have  already  formed  an  opinion." 

I  admitted  that  I  had  thought  but  little  on  the 
subject. 


The  Man  at  the  Next  Table.        361 

*  *  I  doubt, ' '  he  continued,  swathing  his  knees 
in  his  coat-tails, — "  I  doubt  whether  you  have 
given  much  attention  to  the  subject  lately  dis 
cussed   by  the   Boston  Dodo  Society  of  Pytha 
gorean  Research." 

' '  I  am  not  sure, ' '  I  said  politely,  ' '  that  I  recall 
that  particular  discussion.  May  I  ask  what  was 
the  question  brought  up  ?  " 

"  The  Felis  Domesticus  question." 

' '  Ah,  that  must  indeed  be  interesting  !  And 
— er — what  may  be  the  Felis  Do — do — 

"  Domesticus — not  Dodo.  Felis  Domesticus, 
the  common  or  garden  cat." 

' '  Indeed, ' '  I  murmured. 

11  You  are  not  listening,"  he  said. 

I  only  half  heard  him  ;  I  could  not  turn  my 
eyes  from  her  face. 

"  Cat  !  "  shouted  the  bald  one,  and  I  almost 
leaped  from  my  chair.  * '  Are  you  deaf  ?  "  he  in 
quired,  sympathetically. 

' '  No — oh  no  !  "  I  replied,  colouring  with  con 
fusion  ;  "  you  were — pardon  me — you  were — er 
—speaking  of  the  Dodo.  Extraordinary  bird 
that " 

"  I  was  not  discussing  the  Dodo,"  he  sighed— 
"  I  was  speaking  of  cats." 

II  Of  course,"  I  said. 

*  *  The  question  is, ' '  he  continued,  twisting  his 
frayed  coat-tails  into  a  sort  of  rope—"  the  ques 
tion  is,  how  are  we  to  ameliorate  the  present  con 
dition  and  social  status  of  our  domestic 


362        The  Man  at  the  Next  Table. 

"  Feed  'em,"  I  suggested. 

He  raised  both  hands.  They  were  eloquent 
with  patient  expostulation.  ' '  I  mean  their  spir 
itual  condition, ' '  he  said. 

I  nodded,  but  my  eyes  reverted  to  that  exquisite 
face.  She  sat  silent,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  waning 
flecks  of  colour  in  the  western  sky. 

"  Yes,"  repeated  the  bald  one,  "  the  spiritual 
welfare  of  our  domestic  cats ' 

' '  Toms  and  Tabbies  ?  "  I  murmured. 

* c  Exactly, ' '  he  said,  tying  a  large  knot  in  his 
coat-tails. 

' '  You  will  ruin  your  coat, ' '  I  observed. 

"  Papa  !  "  exclaimed  the  girl,  turning  in  dis 
may,  as  that  gentleman  gave  a  guilty  start,  '  *  stop 
it  at  once  ! ' ' 

He  smiled  apologetically  and  made  a  feeble 
attempt  to  conceal  his  coat-tails. 

' '  My  dear, ' '  he  said,  with  gentle  deprecation, 
'  *  I  am  so  absent-minded — I  always  do  it  in  the 
heat  of  argument." 

The  girl  rose,  and,  bending  over  her  untidy 
parent,  deftly  untied  the  knot  in  his  flapping 
coat.  When  he  was  disentangled,  she  sat  down 
and  said,  with  a  ghost  of  a  smile;  "  he  is  so  very 
absent-minded. ' ' 

' '  Your  father  is  evidently  a  great  student, ' '  I 
said,  pleasantly.  How  I  pitied  her,  tied  to  this 
lunatic  ! 

"  Yes,  he  is  a  great  student,"  she  said,  quietly. 

"  I  am,"  he  murmured,   "  that 's  what  makes 


The  Man  at  the  Next  Table.       363 

me  so  absent-minded.  I  often  go  to  bed  and 
forget  to  sleep."  Then  looking  at  me  lie  asked 
me  my  name,  adding,  with  a  bow,  that  his  name 
was  P.  Royal  Wyeth,  Professor  of  Pythagorean 
Research  and  Abstruse  Paradox. 

' '  My  first  name  is  Penny — named  after  Profes 
sor  Penny  of  Harvard, ' '  he  said,  ' '  but  I  seldom 
use  my  first  name  in  connection  with  my  second, 
as  the  combination  suggests  a  household  remedy 
of  penetrating  odour. ' ' 

"  My  name  is  Kensett,"  I  said,  "  Harold  Ken- 
sett  of  New  York. ' ' 

"Student?" 

"Er— a  little— 

' '  Student  of  diamonds  ?  ' ' 

I  smiled.  ' '  Oh,  I  see  you  know  who  my  great- 
aunt  was,"  I  said. 

' '  I  know  her, ' '  he  said. 

"  Ah, — perhaps  you  are  unaware  that  my 
great- aunt  is  not  now  living — 

' '  I  know  her, ' '  he  repeated,  obstinately. 

I  bowed.     What  a  crank  he  was  ! 

"  What  do  you  study  ?  You  don't  fiddle  away 
all  your  time,  do  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

Now  that  was  just  what  I  did,  but  I  was  not 
pleased  to  have  Miss  Wyeth  know  it.  Although 
my  time  was  chiefly  spent  in  shooting  and  fish 
ing,  I  had  once,  in  a  fit  of  energy,  succeeded  in 
stuffing  and  mounting  a  woodcock,  so  I  evaded  a 
humiliating  confession  by  saying  that  I  had  done 
a  little  work  in  ornithology. 


364        The  Man  at  the  Next  Table. 

"  Good  !  "  cried  the  Professor,  beaming  all 
over.  "  I  knew  you  were  a  fellow  scientist. 
Possibly  you  are  a  brother  member  of  the  Boston 
Dodo  Society  of  Pythagorean  Research.  Are  you 
a  Dodo?" 

I  shook  my  head.     "No,  I  am  not  a  Dodo." 

"  Only  a  jay?" 

"  A— what  ?  "  I  said,  angrily. 

"  A  jay.  We  call  the  members  of  the  Junior 
Ornithological  Jay  Society  of  New  York,  jays, 
just  as  we  refer  to  ourselves  as  Dodos.  Are  you 
not  even  a  jay  ?  " 

' '  I  am  not, ' '  I  said,  watching  him  suspiciously. 

' '  I  must  convert  you,  I  see, ' '  said  the  Professor, 
smiling. 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  do  not  approve  of  Pythagorean 
research, ' '  I  began,  but  the  beautiful  Miss  Wyeth 
turned  to  me  very  seriously,  and  looking  me 
frankly  in  the  eyes,  said: 

"  I  trust  you  will  be  open  to  conviction." 

"  Good  Lord  !  "  I  thought,  "  can  she  be  an 
other  crank."  I  looked  at  her  steadily.  What  a 
little  beauty  she  was.  She  also  then  belonged  to 
the  Pythagoreans — a  sect  I  despised.  Bverybody 
knows  all  about  the  Pythagorean  craze,  its  rise  in 
Boston,  its  rapid  spread,  and  its  subsequent  con 
solidation  with  Theosophy,  Hypnotism,  the  Sal 
vation  Army,  the  Shakers,  the  Dunkards,  and 
the  Mind  Cure  Cult,  upon  a  business  basis.  I 
had  hitherto  regarded  all  Pythagoreans  with  the 
same  scornful  indifference  which  I  accorded  to  the 


The  Man  at  the  Next  Table.       365 

Faith  Curists  ;  being  a  member  of  the  Catholic 
Church  I  was  scarcely  prepared  to  take  any  of 
them  seriously.  Least  of  all  did  I  approve  of  the 
'  *  business  basis, ' '  and  I  looked  very  much 
askance  indeed  at  the  ' '  Scientific  and  Religious 
Trust  Company,"  duly  incorporated  and  gener 
ally  known  as  the  Pythagorean  Trust,  which, 
consolidating  with  Mind  Curists,  Faith  Curists, 
and  other  nourishing  Salvation  Syndicates,  actu 
ally  claimed  a  place  among  ordinary  Trusts,  and 
at  the  same  time  pretended  to  a  control  over 
man's  future  life.  No,  I  could  never  listen — I 
was  ashamed  of  even  entertaining  the  notion,  and 
I  shook  my  head. 

"  No,  Miss  Wyeth,  I  am  afraid  I  do  not  care  to 
listen  to  any  reasoning  on  this  subject." 

* '  Don't  you  believe  in  Pythagoras  ?  ' '  demanded 
the  Professor,  subduing  his  excitement  with  diffi 
culty,  and  adding  another  knot  to  his  coat-tails. 

"No,"  I  said,  "  I  do  not." 

"  How  do  you  know  you  don't  ?  "  enquired  the 
Professor. 

* '  Because, ' '  I  said,  firmly,  "it  is  nonsense  to 
say  that  the  soul  of  a  human  being  can  inhabit  a 
hen  !  " 

' c  Put  it  in  a  more  simplified  form  !  ' '  insisted 
the  Professor;  "  do  you  believe  that  the  soul  of  a 
hen  can  inhabit  a  human  being  ?  ' ' 

"No,  I  don't  !" 

' '  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  hen-pecked  man  ?  ' ' 
cried  the  Professor,  his  voice  ending  in  a  shout. 


366        The  Man  at  the  Next  Table. 

I  nodded,  intensely  annoyed. 

4 '  Will  you  listen  to  reason,  then  ?  * '  he  con 
tinued,  eagerly. 

"No,"  I  began,  but  I  caught  Miss  Wyeth's 
blue  eyes  fixed  on  mine  with  an  expression  so 
sad,  so  sweetly  appealing,  that  I  faltered. 

"  Yes,  I  will  listen,"  I  said,  faintly. 

' '  Will  you  become  my  pupil  ?  ' '  insisted  the 
Professor. 

I  was  shocked  to  find  myself  wavering,  but  my 
eyes  were  looking  into  hers,  and  I  could  not  dis 
obey  what  I  read  there.  The  longer  I  looked  the 
greater  inclination  I  felt  to  waver.  I  saw  that  I 
was  going  to  give  in,  and,  strangest  of  all,  my 
conscience  did  not  trouble  me.  I  felt  it  coining — 
a  sort  of  mild  exhilaration  took  possession  of  me. 
For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  became  reckless — I 
even  gloried  in  my  recklessness. 

' '  Yes,  yes, ' '  I  cried,  leaning  eagerly  across  the 
table,  "  I  shall  be  glad— delighted  !  Will  you 
take  me  as  your  pupil  ?  ' '  My  single  eye-glass 
fell  from  its  position  unheeded.  "  Take  me  ! 
Oh,  will  you  take  me  ?  "  I  cried.  Instead  of  an 
swering,  the  Professor  blinked  rapidly  at  me  for  a 
moment.  I  imagined  his  eyes  had  grown  bigger, 
and  were  assuming  a  greenish  tinge.  The  corners 
of  his  mouth  began  to  quiver,  emitting  queer, 
caressing  little  noises,  and  he  rapidly  added  knot 
after  knot  to  his  twitching  coat-tails.  Suddenly 
he  bent  forward  across  the  table  until  his  nose 
almost  touched  mine.  The  pupils  of  his  eyes  ex- 


The  Man  at  the  Next  Table.       367 

panded,  the  iris  assuming  a  beautiful  changing 
golden-green  tinge,  and  his  coat-tails  switched 
violently.  Then  he  began  to  mew. 

I  strove  to  rouse  myself  from  my  paralysis — I 
tried  to  shrink  back,  for  I  felt  the  end  of  his  cold 
nose  touch  mine.  I  could  not  move.  The  cry  of 
terror  died  in  my  straining  throat,  my  hands  tight 
ened  convulsively;  I  was  incapable  of  speech  or 
motion.  At  the  same  time  my  brain  became  won 
derfully  clear.  I  began  to  remember  everything 
that  had  ever  happened  to  me — everything  that  I 
had  ever  done  or  said.  I  even  remembered  things 
that  I  had  neither  done  nor  said,  I  recalled  dis 
tinctly  much  that  had  never  happened.  How 
fresh  and  strong  my  memory !  The  past  was  like 
a  mirror,  crystal  clear,  and  there,  in  glorious  tints 
and  hues,  the  scenes  of  my  childhood  grew  and 
glowed  and  faded,  and  gave  place  to  newer  and 
more  splendid  scenes.  For  a  moment  the  episode 
of  the  cat  at  the  Hotel  St.  Antoine  flashed  across 
my  mind.  When  it  vanished,  a  chilly  stupor 
slowly  clouded  my  brain ;  the  scenes,  the  memo 
ries,  the  brilliant  colours,  faded,  leaving  me  envel 
oped  in  a  grey  vapour,  through  which  the  two 
great  eyes  of  the  Professor  twinkled  with  a  murky 
light.  A  peculiar  longing  stirred  me, — a  strange 
yearning  for  something — I  knew  not  what — but, 
oh  !  how  I  longed  and  yearned  for  it  !  Slowly 
this  indefinite,  incomprehensible  longing  became 
a  living  pain.  Ah,  how  I  suffered ! — and  how  the 
vapours  seemed  to  crowd  around  me.  Then,  as  at 


368        The  Man  at  the  Next  Table. 

a  great  distance,  I  heard  her  voice,  sweet,  impera 
tive  : 

"  Mew  !"  she  said. 

For  a  moment  I  seemed  to  see  the  interior  of 
my  own  skull,  lighted  as  by  a  flash  of  fire;  the 
rolling  eye-balls,  veined  in  scarlet,  the  glistening 
muscles  quivering  along  the  jaw,  the  humid 
masses  of  the  convoluted  brain, — then  awful  dark 
ness — a  darkness  almost  tangible — an  utter  black 
ness,  through  which  now  seemed  to  creep  a  thin 
silver  thread,  like  a  river  crawling  across  a  world 
— like  a  thought  gliding  to  the  brain — like  a 
song,  a  thin,  sharp  song  which  some  distant  voice 
was  singing — which  I  was  singing. 

And  I  knew  that  I  was  mewing  ! 

I  threw  myself  back  in  my  chair  and  mewed 
with  all  my  heart.  Oh,  that  heavy  load  which 
was  lifted  from  my  breast  !  How  good,  how 
satisfying  it  was  to  mew  !  And  how  I  did  mew  ! 

I  gave  myself  up  to  it,  heart  and  soul;  my 
whole  being  thrilled  with  the  passionate  outpour 
ings  of  a  spirit  freed.  My  voice  trembled  in  the 
upper  bars  of  a  feline  love  song,  quavered,  de 
scended,  swelling  again  into  an  intimation  that  I 
brooked  no  rival,  and  ended  with  a  magnificent 
crescendo. 

I  finished,  somewhat  abashed,  and  glanced 
askance  at  the  Professor  and  his  daughter,  but 
the  one  sat  nonchalantly  disentangling  his  coat- 
tails,  and  the  other  was  apparently  absorbed  in 
the  distant  landscape.  Evidently  they  did  not 


The  Man  at  the  Next  Table.        369 

consider  me  ridiculous.  Flushing  painfully,  I 
turned  in  my  chair  to  see  how  my  gruesome  solo 
had  affected  the  people  on  the  terrace.  Nobody 
even  looked  at  me.  This,  however,  gave  me 
little  comfort,  for,  as  I  began  to  realize  what  I 
had  done,  my  mortification  and  rage  knew  ,no 
bounds.  I  was  ready  to  die  of  shame.  What  on 
earth  had  induced  me  to  mew  ?  I  looked  wildly 
about  for  escape — I  would  leap  up — rush  home 
to  bury  my  burning  face  in  my  pillows,  and 
later  in  the  friendly  cabin  of  a  homeward-bound 
steamer.  I  would  fly — fly  at  once  !  Woe  to  the 
man  who  blocked  my  way  !  I  started  to  my  feet, 
but  at  that  moment  I  caught  Miss  Wyeth's  eyes 
fixed  on  mine. 

"  Don't  go,"  she  said. 

What  in  Heaven's  name  lay  in  those  blue 
eyes  !  I  slowly  sank  back  into  my  chair. 

Then  the  Professor  spoke.  "  Elsie,  I  have  just 
received  a  dispatch." 

"Where   from,  Papa?" 

"  From  India.     I  'm  going  at  once." 

She  nodded  her  head,  without  turning  her  eyes 
from  the  sea.  "  Is  it  important,  papa  ? ' ' 

"  I  should  say  so.  The  cashier  of  the  Trust 
has  eloped  with  an  Astral  body,  and  has  taken  all 
our  funds,  including  a  lot  of  first  mortgages  on 
Nirvana.  I  suppose  he  's  been  dabbling  in 
futures,  and  was  short  in  his  accounts.  I  shan't 
be  gone  long. ' ' 

4 '  Then  good- night,   papa, ' '   she  said,   kissing 
34 


370        The  Man  at  the  Next  Table. 

him,  "  try  to  be  back  by  eleven."  I  sat  stupidly 
staring  at  them. 

"  Oh,  it  's  only  to  Bombay — I  shan't  go  to 
Thibet  to-night, — good-night,  my  dear,"  said  the 
Professor. 

Then  a  singular  thing  occurred.  The  Professor 
had  at  last  succeeded  in  disentangling  his  coat 
tails,  and  now,  jamming  his  hat  over  his  ears,  and 
waving  his  arms  with  a  bat-like  motion,  he  climbed 
upon  the  seat  of  his  chair,  and  ejaculated  the 
word  ' '  Presto  !  ' '  Then  I  found  my  voice. 

' '  Stop  him  !  "  I  cried,  in  terror. 

' '  Presto  !  Presto  !  ' '  shouted  the  Professor, 
balancing  himself  on  the  edge  of  his  chair  and 
waving  his  arms  majestically,  as  if  preparing  for  a 
sudden  flight  across  the  Scheldt  ;  and,  firmly  con 
vinced  that  he  not  only  meditated  it  but  was  per 
fectly  capable  of  attempting  it,  I  covered  my  eyes 
with  my  hands. 

"Are  you  ill,  Mr.  Kensett  ?  "  said  the  girl, 
quietly. 

I  raised  my  head  indignantly.     "  Not  at  all, 
Miss  Wyeth,  only  I  '11  bid  you  good-evening,  for 
this    is    the    igth    century,    and   I  'm   a   Chris 
tian." 

"  So  am  I, "  she  said.     ' '  So  is  my  father. ' ' 

II  The  devil  he  is,"  I  thought. 
Her  next  words  made  me  jump. 

1 '  Please  do  not  be  profane,  Mr.  Kensett. ' ' 
How  did  she  know  I  was  profane  ?     I  had  not 
spoken  a  word  !     Could  it  be  possible  she  was 


The  Man  at  the  Next  Table.       371 

able  to  read  my  thoughts  ?  This  was  too  much, 
and  I  rose  and  bowed  stiffly. 

' '  I  have  the  honour  to  bid  you  good-evening, ' ' 
I  began,  and  reluctantly  turned  to  include  the 
Professor,  expecting  to  see  that  gentleman  balanc 
ing  himself  on  his  chair.  The  Professor's  chair 
was  empty. 

"Oh,"  said  the  girl,  faintly,  "  my  father  has 
gone." 

"Gone!     Where?" 

"  To— to  India,  I  believe." 

I  sank  helplessly  into  my  own  chair. 

"  I  do  not  think  he  will  stay  very  long — he 
promised  to  return  by  eleven, ' '  she  said,  timidly. 

I  tried  to  realize  the  purport  of  it  all.  ' '  Gone 
to  India  ?  Gone  !  How  ?  On  a  broomstick  ? 
Good  Heavens  !  "  I  murmured,  * '  am  I  sane  ?  ' ' 

' '  Perfectly, ' '  she  said,  ' '  and  I  am  tired ;  you 
may  take  me  back  to  the  hotel." 

I  scarcely  heard  her;  I  was  feebly  attempting 
to  gather  up  my  numbed  wits.  Slowly  I  began 
to  comprehend  the  situation,  to  review  the  start 
ling  and  humiliating  events  of  the  day.  At  noon, 
in  the  court  of  the  Hotel  St.  Antoine,  I  had  been 
annoyed  by  a  man  and  a  cat.  I  had  retired  to 
my  own  room  and  had  slept  until  dinner.  In  the 
evening  I  met  two  tourists  on  the  sea-wall  prom 
enade.  I  had  been  beguiled  into  conversation — 
yes,  into  intimacy  with  these  two  tourists  !  I  had 
had  the  intention  of  embracing  the  faith  of  Py 
thagoras  !  Then  I  had  mewed  like  a  cat  with  all 


372        The  Man  at  the  Next  Table. 

the  strength  of  my  lungs.  Then  the  male  tourist 
vanishes — and  leaves  me  in  charge  of  the  female 
tourist,  alone  and  at  night  in  a  strange  city  ! 
And  now  the  female  tourist  proposes  that  I  take 
her  home  ! 

With  a  remnant  of  self-possession  I  groped  for 
my  eye-glass,  seized  it,  screwed  it  firmly  into  my 
eye,  and  looked  long  and  earnestly  at  the  girl. 
As  I  looked,  my  eyes  softened,  my  monocle 
dropped,  and  I  forgot  everything  in  the  beauty 
and  purity  of  the  face  before  me.  My  heart 
began  to  beat  against  my  stiff  white  waistcoat. 
Had  I  dared — yes,  dared  to  think  of  this  won 
drous  little  beauty,  as  a  female  tourist  ?  Her 
pale  sweet  face,  turned  toward  the  sea,  seemed  to 
cast  a  spell  upon  the  night.  How  loud  my  heart 
was  beating.  The  yellow  moon  floated,  half 
dipping  in  the  sea,  flooding  land  and  water  with 
enchanted  lights.  Wind  and  wave  seemed  to  feel 
the  spell  of  her  eyes,  for  the  breeze  died  away, 
the  heaving  Scheldt  tossed  noiselessly,  and  the 
dark  Dutch  luggers  swung  idly  on  the  tide  with 
every  sail  adroop. 

A  sudden  hush  fell  over  land  and  water,  the 
voices  on  the  promenade  were  stilled;  little  by 
little  the  shadowy  throng,  the  terrace,  the  sea 
itself  vanished,  and  I  only  saw  her  face,  shadowed 
against  the  moon. 

It  seemed  as  if  I  had  drifted  miles  above  the 
earth,  through  all  space  and  eternity,  and  there 
was  nought  between  me  and  high  Heaven  but 


The  Man  at  the  Next  Table.        373 

that  white  face.  Ah,  how  I  loved  her  !  I  knew 
it — I  never  doubted  it.  Could  years  of  passionate 
adoration  touch  her  heart — her  little  heart,  now 
beating  so  calmly  with  no  thought  of  love  to  star 
tle  it  from  its  quiet  and  send  it  fluttering  against 
the  gentle  breast  ?  In  her  lap  her  clasped  hands 
tightened, — her  eyelids  drooped  as  though  some 
pleasant  thought  was  passing.  I  saw  the  colour 
dye  her  temples,  I  saw  the  blue  eyes  turn,  half- 
frightened  to  my  own,  I  saw — and  I  knew  she 
had  read  my  thoughts.  Then  we  both  rose,  side 
by  side,  and  she  was  weeping  softly,  yet  for  my 
life  I  dared  not  speak.  She  turned  away,  touch 
ing  her  eyes  with  a  bit  of  lace,  and  I  sprang  to 
her  side  and  offered  her  my  arm. 

' '  You  cannot  go  back  alone, ' '  I  said. 

She  did  not  take  my  arm. 

"  Do  you  hate  me,  Miss  Wyeth  ?  " 

"  I  am  very  tired,"  she  said,  "  I  must  go 
home." 

"  You  cannot  go  alone." 

' '  I  do  not  care  to  accept  your  escort. ' ' 

' '  Then — you  send  me  away  ?  '  * 

' '  No, ' '  she  said,  in  a  hard  voice.  ' '  You  can 
come  if  you  like."  So  I  humbly  attended  her  to 
the  Hotel  St.  Antoine. 


III. 


AS  we  reached  the  Place  Verte  and  turned 
into  the  court  of  the  hotel,  the  sound  of 
the  midnight  bells  swept  over  the  city, 
and  a  horse-car  jingled  slowly  by  on  its  last  trip 
to  the  railroad  station. 

We  passed  the  fountain,  bubbling  and  splashing 
in  the  moonlit  court,  and,  crossing  the  square, 
entered  the  southern  wing  of  the  hotel.  At  the 
foot  of  the  stairway  she  leaned  for  an  instant 
against  the  banisters. 

' '  I  am  afraid  we  have  walked  too  fast, ' '  I  said. 
She  turned  to  me  coldly.     "  No, — conventional 
ities  must  be  observed.     You  were  quite  right  in 
escaping  as  soon  as  possible. ' ' 

"  But,"  I  protested,  "  I  assure  you " 

She  gave  a  little  movement  of  impatience. 
"  Don't,"  she  said,  "  you  tire  me — convention 
alities  tire  me.  Be  satisfied, — nobody  has  seen 
you. ' ' 

' '  You  are  cruel, ' '  I  said,  in  a  low  voice — ' '  what 

do  you  think  I  care  for  conventionalities ' ' 

'  You  care  everything, — you  care  what  people 
think,  and  you  try  to  do  what  they  say  is  good 
374 


The  Man  at  the  Next  Table.       375 

form.     You  never  did  such  an  original  thing  in 
your  life  as  you  have  just  done." 

' '  You  read  my  thoughts, ' '  I  exclaimed,  bit 
terly — ' '  it  is  not  fair — 

' '  Fair  or  not,  I  know  what  you  consider  me, 
—ill-bred,  common,  pleased  with  any  sort  of  at 
tention.  Oh  !  Why  should  I  waste  one  word — 
one  thought  on  you  !  ' ' 

"  Miss  Wyeth, — "  I  began,  but  she  interrupted 
me. 

' '  Would  you  dare  tell  me  what  you  think  of 
me  ? — Would  you  dare  tell  me  what  you  think  of 
my  father  ?  ' ' 

I  was  silent.  She  turned  and  mounted  two 
steps  of  the  stairway,  then  faced  me  again. 

' '  Do  you  think  it  was  for  my  own  pleasure  that 
I  permitted  myself  to  be  left  alone  with  you  ?  Do 
you  imagine  that  I  am  nattered  by  your  attention 
— do  you  venture  to  think  I  ever  could  be  ?  How 
dared  you  think  what  you  did  think  there  on  the 
sea-wall  ?  ' ' 

' '  I  cannot  help  my  thoughts  !  "  I  replied. 
'  You  turned  on  me  like   a  tiger  when  you 
awoke  from  your  trance.     Do  you  really  suppose 
that  you  mewed  ?     Are  you  not  aware  that  my 
father  hypnotized  you  ?  ' ' 

"  No— I  did  not  know  it,"  I  said.  The  hot 
blood  tingled  in  my  finger  tips,  and  I  looked 
angrily  at  her. 

<l  Why  do  you  imagine  that  I  waste  my  time 
on  you  ?  ' '  she  said.  ' '  Your  vanity  has  answered 


376        The  Man  at  the  Next  Table. 

that  question, — now  let  your  intelligence  answer 
it.  I  am  a  Pythagorean;  I  have  been  chosen  to 
bring  in  a  convert,  and  you  were  the  convert 
selected  for  me  by  the  Mahatmas  of  the  Consoli 
dated  Trust  Company.  I  have  followed  you  from 
New  York  to  Antwerp,  as  I  was  bidden,  but  now 
my  courage  fails,  and  I  shrink  from  fulfilling  my 
mission,  knowing  you  to  be  the  type  of  man  you 
are.  If  I  could  give  it  up — if  I  could  only  go 
away, — never,  never  again  to  see  you  !  Ah,  I 
fear  they  will  not  permit  it  ! — until  my  mission  is 
accomplished.  Why  was  I  chosen, — I,  with  a 
woman's  heart  and  a  woman's  pride.  I — I  hate 
you  !" 

' '  I  love  you, ' '  I  said,  slowly. 

She  paled  and  looked  away. 

' '  Answer  me, ' '   I  said. 

Her  wide  blue  eyes  turned  back  again,  and  I 
held  them  with  mine.  At  last  she  slowly  drew  a 
long- stemmed  rose  from  the  bunch  at  her  belt, 
turned,  and  mounted  the  shadowy  staircase.  For 
a  moment  I  thought  I  saw  her  pause  on  the  land 
ing  above,  but  the  moonlight  was  uncertain. 
After  waiting  for  a  long  time  in  vain,  I  moved 
away,  and  in  going  raised  my  hand  to  my  face, 
but  I  stopped  short,  and  my  heart  stopped  too, 
for  a  moment.  In  my  hand  I  held  a  long-stemmed 
rose. 

With  my  brain  in  a  whirl  I  crept  across  the  court 
and  mounted  the  stairs  to  my  room.  Hour  after 
hour  I  walked  the  floor,  slowly  at  first,  then  more 


The  Man  at  the  Next  Table.       377 

rapidly,  but  it  brought  no  calm  to  the  fierce  tu 
mult  of  my  thoughts,  and  at  last  I  dropped  into  a 
chair  before  the  empty  fireplace,  burying  my  head 
in  my  hands. 

Uncertain,  shocked,  and  deadly  weary,  I  tried 
to  think, — I  strove  to  bring  order  out  of  the  chaos 
in  my  brain,  but  I  only  sat  staring  at  the  long- 
stemmed  rose.  Slowly  I  began  to  take  a  vague 
pleasure  in  its  heavy  perfume,  and  once  I  crushed 
a  leaf  between  my  palms,  and,  bending  over, 
drank  in  the  fragrance. 

Twice  my  lamp  flickered  and  went  out,  and 
twice,  treading  softly,  I  crossed  the  room  to  re 
light  it.  Twice  I  threw  open  the  door,  thinking 
that  I  heard  some  sound  without.  How  close  the 
air  was, — how  heavy  and  hot  !  And  what  was 
that  strange,  subtle  odour  which  had  insensibly 
filled  the  room  ?  It  grew  stronger  and  more  pene 
trating,  and  I  began  to  dislike  it,  and  to  escape 
it  I  buried  my  nose  in  the  half-opened  rose. 
Horror  !  The  odour  came  from  the  rose, — and 
the  rose  itself  was  no  longer  a  rose — not  even  a 
flower  now, — it  was  only  a  bunch  of  catnip;  and 
I  dashed  it  to  the  floor  and  ground  it  under  my 
heel. 

"  Mountebank  !  "  I  cried  in  a  rage.  My  anger 
grew  cold — and  I  shivered,  drawn  perforce  to  the 
curtained  window.  Something  was  there — out 
side.  I  could  not  hear  it,  for  it  made  no  sound, 
but  I  knew  it  was  there,  watching  me.  What 
was  it  ?  The  damp  hair  stirred  on  my  head.  I 


378        The  Man  at  the  Next  Table. 

touched  the  heavy  curtains.  Whatever  was  out 
side  them  sprang  up,  tore  at  the  window,  and 
then  rushed  away. 

Feeling  very  shaky,  I  crept  to  the  window, 
opened  it,  and  leaned  out.  The  night  was  calm. 
I  heard  the  fountain  splashing  in  the  moonlight 
and  the  sea  winds  soughing  through  the  palms. 
Then  I  closed  the  window  and  turned  back  into 
the  room;  and  as  I  stood  there  a  sudden  breeze, 
which  could  not  have  come  from  without,  blew 
sharply  in  my  face,  extinguishing  the  candle  and 
sending  the  long  curtains  bellying  out  into  the 
room.  The  lamp  on  the  table  flashed  and  smoked 
and  sputtered ;  the  room  was  littered  with  flying 
papers  and  catnip  leaves.  Then  the  strange  wind 
died  away,  and  somewhere  in  the  night  a  cat 
snarled. 

I  turned  desperately  to  my  trunk  and  flung  it 
open.  Into  it  I  threw  everything  I  owned,  pell- 
mell,  closed  the  lid,  locked  it,  and  seizing  my 
mackintosh  and  travelling  bag,  ran  down  the 
stairs,  crossed  the  court  and  entered  the  night  office 
of  the  hotel.  There  I  called  up  the  sleepy  clerk, 
settled  my  reckoning,  and  sent  a  porter  for  a  cab. 

"  Now,"  I  said,  "what  time  does  the  next  train 
leave?" 

"  The  next  train  for  where  ?  " 

"Anywhere  !" 

The  clerk  locked  the  safe,  and  carefully  keep 
ing  the  desk  between  himself  and  me,  motioned 
the  office  boy  to  look  at  the  time-tables. 


The  Man  at  the  Next  Table.       379 

"  Next  train,  2.10.  Brussels — Paris,"  read  the 
boy. 

At  that  moment  the  cab  rattled  up  by  the  curb 
stone,  and  I  sprang  in  while  the  porter  tossed  my 
traps  on  top.  Away  we  bumped  over  the  stony 
pavement,  past  street  after  street  lighted  dimly  by 
tall  gas-lamps,  and  alley  after  alley  brilliant  with 
the  glare  of  villainous  all-night  cafe-concerts,  and 
then,  turning,  we  rumbled  past  the  Circus  and  the 
Kldorado,  and  at  last  stopped  with  a  jolt  before 
the  Brussels  Station. 

I  had  not  a  moment  to  lose.  ' '  Paris !  "  I  cried, 
— ' '  first-class  !  ' '  and,  pocketing  the  book  of  cou 
pons,  hurried  across  the  platform  to  where  the 
Brussels  train  lay.  A  guard  came  running  up, 
flung  open  the  door  of  a  first-class  carriage, 
slammed  and  locked  it,  after  I  had  jumped  in, 
and  the  long  train  glided  from  the  arched  station 
out  into  the  starlit  morning. 

I  was  all  alone  in  the  compartment.  The 
wretched  lamp  in  the  roof  flickered  dimly,  scarcely 
lighting  the  stuffy  box.  I  could  not  see  to  read 
my  time-table,  so  I  wrapped  my  legs  in  the  trav 
elling  rug  and  lay  back,  staring  out  into  the  misty 
morning.  Trees,  walls,  telegraph  poles,  flashed 
past,  and  the  cinders  drove  in  showers  against  the 
rattling  windows.  I  slept  at  times,  fitfully,  and 
once,  springing  up,  peered  sharply  at  the  opposite 
seat,  possessed  with  the  idea  that  somebody  was 
there. 

When  the  train  reached  Brussels,  I  was  sound 


380        The  Man  at  the  Next  Table. 

asleep,  and  the  guard  awoke  me  with  diffi 
culty. 

"  Breakfast,  sir  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Anything,"  I  sighed,  and  stepped  out  to  the 
platform,  rubbing  my  legs  and  shivering.  The 
other  passengers  were  already  breakfasting  in  the 
station  cafe,  and  I  joined  them  and  managed  to 
swallow  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  roll. 

The  morning  broke,  grey  and  cloudy,  and  I 
bundled  myself  into  my  mackintosh  for  a  tramp 
along  the  platform  Up  and  down  I  stamped, 
puffing  a  cigar,  and  digging  my  hands  deep  in 
my  pockets,  while  the  other  passengers  huddled 
into  the  warmer  compartments  of  the  train  or 
stood  watching  the  luggage  being  lifted  into  the 
forward  mail  carriage.  The  wait  was  very  long  ; 
the  hands  of  the  great  clock  pointed  to  six,  and 
still  the  train  lay  motionless  along  the  platform. 
I  approached  a  guard,  and  asked  him  whether 
anything  was  wrong. 

' '  Accident  on  the  line, ' '  he  replied ;  ' (  Monsieur 
had  better  go  to  his  compartment  and  try  to  sleep, 
for  we  may  be  delayed  until  noon. ' ' 

I  followed  the  guard's  advice,  and  crawling  into 
my  corner,  wrapped  myself  in  the  rug  and  lay 
back  watching  the  rain-drops  spattering  along  the 
window-sill.  At  noon,  the  train  had  not  moved, 
and  I  lunched  in  the  compartment.  At  four 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the  station-master  came 
hurrying  along  the  platform,  crying  "  montez  ! 
montez  !  Messieurs — Dames,  s'il  vous  plait," — 


The  Man  at  the  Next  Table.        381 

and  the  train  steamed  out  of  the  station  and 
whirled  away  through  the  flat,  treeless  Belgian 
plains.  At  times  I  dozed,  but  the  shaking  of  the 
car  always  awoke  me,  and  I  would  sit  blinking 
out  at  the  endless  stretch  of  plain,  until  a  sudden 
flurry  of  rain  blotted  the  landscape  from  my  eyes. 
At  last,  a  long,  shrill  whistle  from  the  engine,  a 
jolt,  a  series  of  bumps,  and  an  apparition  of  red 
trousers  and  bayonets  warned  me  that  we  had 
arrived  at  the  French  frontier.  I  turned  out 
with  the  others,  and  opened  my  valise  for  inspec 
tion,  but  the  customs  officials  merely  chalked  it 
without  examination,  and  I  hurried  back  to  my 
compartment  amid  the  shouting  of  guards  and  the 
clanging  of  station  bells.  Again  I  found  that  I 
was  alone  in  the  compartment,  so  I  smoked  a 
cigarette,  thanked  Heaven,  and  fell  into  a  dream 
less  sleep. 

How  long  I  slept  I  do  not  know,  but  when  I 
awoke,  the  train  was  roaring  through  a  tunnel. 
When  again  it  flashed  out  into  the  open  country, 
I  peered  through  the  grimy  rain-stained  window 
and  saw  that  the  storm  had  ceased  and  stars  were 
twinkling  in  the  sky.  I  stretched  my  legs, 
yawned,  pushed  my  travelling  cap  back  from  my 
forehead,  and  stumbling  to  my  feet,  walked  up 
and  down  the  compartment  until  my  cramped 
muscles  were  relieved.  Then  I  sat  down  again, 
and,  lighting  a  cigar,  puffed  great  rings  and 
clouds  of  fragrant  smoke  across  the  aisle. 

The  train  was  flying  ;    the  cars  lurched  and 


382        The  Man  at  the  Next  Table. 

shook,  and  the  windows  rattled  accompaniment 
to  the  creaking  panels.  The  smoke  from  my 
cigar  dimmed  the  lamp  in  the  ceiling  and  hid  the 
opposite  seat  from  view.  How  it  curled  and 
writhed  in  the  corners,  now  eddying  upward,  now 
floating  across  the  aisle  like  a  veil.  I  lounged 
back  in  my  cushioned  seat  watching  it  with  inter 
est.  What  queer  shapes  it  took.  How  thick  it 
was  becoming — how  strangely  luminous  !  Now 
it  had  filled  the  whole  compartment,  puff  after 
puff  crowding  upward,  waving,  wavering,  cloud 
ing  the  windows,  and  blotting  the  lamp  from 
sight.  It  was  most  interesting.  I  had  never 
before  smoked  such  a  cigar.  What  an  extraordi 
nary  brand  !  I  examined  the  end,  flicking  the 
ashes  away.  The  cigar  was  out.  Fumbling  for 
a  match  to  relight  it,  my  eyes  fell  on  the  drifting 
smoke  curtain,  which  swayed  across  the  corner 
opposite.  It  seemed  almost  tangible.  How  like 
a  real  curtain  it  hung,  grey,  impenetrable.  A 
man  might  hide  behind  it.  Then  an  idea  came 
into  my  head,  and  it  persisted  until  my  uneasiness 
amounted  to  a  vague  terror.  I  tried  to  fight  it 
off — I  strove  to  resist — but  the  conviction  slowly 
settled  upon  me  that  something  was  behind  that 
smoke  veil, — something  which  had  entered  the 
compartment  while  I  slept. 

"  It  can't  be,"  I  muttered,  my  eyes  fixed  on 
the  misty  drapery,  "  the  train  has  not  stopped." 

The  car  creaked  and  trembled.  I  sprang  to 
my  feet,  and  swept  my  arm  through  the  veil  of 


The  Man  at  the  Next  Table.       383 

smoke.  Then  my  hair  slowly  rose  on  my  head. 
For  my  hand  touched  another  hand,  and  my  eyes 
had  met  two  other  eyes. 

My  senses  reeled.  I  heard  a  voice  in  the 
gloom,  low  and  sweet,  calling  me  by  name  ;  I 
saw  the  eyes  again,  tender  and  blue  ;  soft  fingers 
touched  my  own. 

"  Are  you  afraid  ?  "  she  said. 

My  heart  began  to  beat  again,  and  my  face 
warmed  with  returning  blood. 

"  It  is  only  I,"  she  said,  gently. 

I  seemed  to  hear  my  own  voice  speaking  as  if 
at  a  great  distance  ;  c '  you  here — alone  ?  ' ' 

"  How  cruel  of  you,"  she  faltered,  "  I  am  not 
alone."  At  the  same  instant  my  eyes  fell  upon 
the  Professor,  calmly  seated  by  the  further  win 
dow.  His  hands  were  thrust  into  the  folds  of  a 
corded  and  tasselled  dressing-gown,  from  beneath 
which  peeped  two  enormous  feet  encased  in  car 
pet  slippers.  Upon  his  head  towered  a  yellow 
night  cap.  He  did  not  pay  the  slightest  attention 
to  either  me  or  his  daughter,  and,  except  for  the 
lighted  cigar  which  he  kept  shifting  between  his 
lips,  he  might  have  been  taken  for  a  wax  dummy. 

Then  I  began  to  speak,  feebly,  hesitating  like 
a  child. 

' '  How  did  you  come  into  this  compartment  ? 
You — you  do  not  possess  wings,  I  suppose.  You 
could  not  have  been  here  all  the  time.  Will 
you  explain — explain  to  me?  See,  I  ask  you 
very  humbly,  for  I  do  not  understand.  This  is 


384        The  Man  at  the  Next  Table. 

the  igth  century,  and  these  things  don't  fit  in. 
I  'm  wearing  a  Dunlap  hat — I  've  got  a  copy 
of  the  New  York  Herald  in  my  bag, — President 
Cleveland  is  alive  and  everything  is  so  very 
commonplace  in  the  world  !  Is  this  real  magic  ? 
Perhaps  I  'm  filled  with  hallucinations.  Perhaps 
I  'm  asleep  and  dreaming.  Perhaps  you  are 
not  really  here — nor  I — nor  anybody,  nor  any 
thing  !"- 

The  train  plunged  into  a  tunnel,  and  when 
again  it  dashed  out  from  the  other  end,  the  cold 
wind  blew  furiously  in  my  face  from  the  further 
window.  It  was  wide  open  ;  the  Professor  was 
gone. 

"  Papa  has  changed  to  another  compartment," 
she  said,  quietly;  "I  think  perhaps  you  were 
beginning  to  bore  him." 

Her  eyes  met  mine  and  she  smiled  faintly. 

"  Are  you  very  much  bewildered  ?  " 

I  looked  at  her  in  silence.  She  sat  very  quietly, 
her  white  hands  clasped  above  her  knee,  her  curly 
hair  glittering  to  her  girdle.  A  long  robe,  almost 
silvery  in  the  twilight,  clung  to  her  young  figure  ; 
her  bare  feet  were  thrust  deep  into  a  pair  of  shim 
mering  eastern  slippers. 

"When  you  fled,"  she  sighed,  "I  was  asleep 
and  there  was  no  time  to  lose.  I  barely  had  a 
moment  to  go  to  Bombay,  to  find  Papa,  and  re 
turn  in  time  to  join  you.  This  is  an  East  Indian 
costume. ' ' 

Still  I  was  silent. 


The  Man  at  the  Next  Table.       385 

' '  Are  you  shocked  ?  ' '  she  asked  simply 

"No,"  I  replied  in  a  dull  voice,  "I'm  past 
that." 

"  You  are  very  rude,"  she  said,  with  the  tears 
starting  to  her  eyes. 

"  I  do  not  mean  to  be.  I  only  wish  to  go  away 
— away  somewhere  and  find  out  what  my  name  is. ' ' 

"  Your  name  is  Harold  Kensett." 

"  Are  you  sure?"  I  asked,  eagerly. 

"  Yes, — what  troubles  you  ?  " 

' '  Is  everything  plain  to  you  ?  Are  you  a  sort 
of  prophet  and  second  sight  medium  ?  Is  nothing 
hidden  from  you?  "  I  asked. 

"Nothing,"— she  faltered.  My  head  ached 
and  I  clasped  it  in  my  hand. 

A  sudden  change  came  over  her.  "  I  am 
human, — believe  me!" — she  said  with  piteous 
eagerness  ;  "  indeed  I  do  not  seem  strange  to 
those  who  understand.  You  wonder,  because  you 
left  me  at  midnight  in  Antwerp  and  you  wake 
to  find  me  here.  If,  because  I  find  myself  rein 
carnated,  endowed  with  senses  and  capabilities 
which  few  at  present  possess  ; — if  I  am  so  made, 
why  should  it  seem  strange  ?  It  is  all  so  natural 
to  me.  If  I  appear  to  you — " 

"Appear!  !  !" 

"Yes—" 

"  Elsie  !  "  I  cried,  "  can  you  vanish  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured, — "  does  it  seem  to  you 
unwomanly  ? ' ' 

"  Great  Heaven  !  "  I  groaned. 


386        The  Man  at  the  Next  Table. 

"  Don't,"  she  cried,  with  tears  in  her  voice, — 
"oh,  please  don't !  Help  me  to  bear  it !  If  you 
only  knew  how  awful  it  is  to  be  different  from 
other  girls, — how  mortifying  it  is  to  me  to  be 
able  to  vanish, — oh,  how  I  hate  and  detest  it 
all!" 

"  Don't  cry,"  I  said,  looking  at  her  pityingly. 

"  Oh  dear  me  !  "  she  sobbed.  "  You  shudder 
at  the  sight  of  me  because  I  can  vanish." 

11 1  don't  !"  I  cried. 

"Yes  you  do!  You  abhor  me, — you  shrink 
away  !  Oh  why  did  I  ever  see  you, — why  did 
you  ever  come  into  my  life, — what  have  I  done  in 
ages  past,  that  now,  reborn,  I  suffer  cruelly — 
cruelly  !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  !  "  I  whispered.  My 
voice  trembled  with  happiness. 

*  *  I  ? — nothing — but  you  think  me  a  fabled 
monster. ' ' 

"Elsie,—  my  sweet  Elsie,"  I  said,  "I  don't 
think  you  a  fabled  monster ; — I  love  you, — 
see — see — I  am  at  your  feet, — listen  to  me,  my 
darling," — 

She  turned  her  blue  eyes  to  mine.  I  saw  tears 
sparkling  on  the  curved  lashes. 

"Elsie,  I  love  you,"  I  said  again. 

Slowly  she  raised  her  white  hands  to  my  head 
and  held  it  a  moment,  looking  at  me  strangely. 
Then  her  face  grew  nearer  to  my  own,  her  glitter 
ing  hair  fell  over  my  shoulders,  her  lips  rested  on 
mine. 


The  Man  at  the  Next  Table.       387 

In  that  long  sweet  kiss,  the  beating  of  her 
heart  answered  mine,  and  I  learned  a  thousand 
truths,  wonderful,  mysterious,  splendid, — but 
when  our  lips  fell  apart, — the  memory  of  what  I 
learned  departed  also. 

"It  was  so  very  simple  and  beautiful,"  she 
sighed,  ''and  I — I  never  saw  it.  But  the  Ma- 
hatmas  knew — ah,  they  knew  that  my  mission 
could  only  be  accomplished  through  love." 

"And  it  is,"  I  whispered,  "  for  you  shall  teach 
me, — me  your  husband." 

* '  And — and  you  will  not  be  impatient  ?  You 
will  try  to  believe  ?  ' ' 

' '  I  will  believe  what  you  tell  me,  my  sweet 
heart." 

"Even  about— cats?" 

Before  I  could  reply  the  further  window  opened 
and  a  yellow  nightcap,  followed  by  the  Professor, 
entered  from  somewhere  without.  Elsie  sank 
back  on  her  sofa,  but  the  Professor  needed  not  to 
be  told,  and  we  both  knew  he  was  already  busily 
reading  our  thoughts. 

For  a  moment  there  was  dead  silence, — long 
enough  for  the  Professor  to  grasp  the  full  signifi 
cance  of  what  had  passed.  Then  he  uttered  a 
single  exclamation  ;  ' '  Oh  !  ' ' 

After  a  while,  however,  he  looked  at  me  for  the 
first  time  that  evening,  saying;  "Congratulate 
you,  Mr.  Kensett,  I'm  sure;"— tied  several 
knots  in  the  cord  of  his  dressing-gown,  lighted  a 
cigar,  and  paid  no  further  attention  to  either  of 


388        The  Man  at  the  Next  Table. 

us.  Some  moments  later  he  opened  the  window 
again  and  disappeared.  I  looked  across  the  aisle 
at  Elsie. 

"You  may  come  over  beside  me,"  she  said, 
shyly. 


IV. 


IT  was  nearly  ten  o'clock  and  our  train  was 
rapidly  approaching  Paris.  We  passed  vil 
lage  after  village  wrapped  in  mist,  station 
after  station  hung  with  twinkling  red  and  blue 
and  yellow  lanterns,  then  sped  on  again  with  the 
echo  of  the  switch  bells  ringing  in  our  ears. 

When  at  length  the  train  slowed  up  and  stopped, 
I  opened  the  window  and  looked  out  upon  a  long 
wet  platform,  shining  under  the  electric  lights. 

A  guard  came  running  by,  throwing  open  the 
doors  of  each  compartment,  and  crying,  "  Paris 
next !  Tickets,  if  you  please." 

I  handed  him  my  book  of  coupons  from  which 
he  tore  several  and  handed  it  back.  Then  he 
lifted  his  lantern  and  peered  into  the  compartment 
saying  :  "Is  Monsieur  alone? " 

I  turned  to  Klsie. 

II  He  wants  your  ticket — give  it  to  me." 
"What 's  that  ?  "  demanded  the  guard. 
I  looked  anxiously  at  Elsie. 

"  If  your  father  has  the  tickets — "  I  began,  but 
was  interrupted  by  the  guard  who  snapped,  ' '  Mon 
sieur  will  give  himself  the  trouble  to  remember 
that  I  do  not  understand  English." 
389 


390        The  Man  at  the  Next  Table. 

' '  Keep  quiet !  "  I  said  sharply  in  French,  ' '  I 
am  not  speaking  to  you. ' ' 

The  guard  stared  stupidly  at  me,  then  at  my 
luggage,  and  finally,  entering  the  car,  knelt  down 
and  peered  under  the  seats.  Presently  he  got  up, 
very  red  in  the  face,  and  went  out  slamming  the 
door.  He  had  not  paid  the  slightest  attention 
to  Klsie,  but  I  distinctly  heard  him  say,  ' '  only 
Englishmen  and  idiots  talk  to  themselves  ! ' ' 

"  Klsie,"  I  faltered,  "  do  you  mean  to  say  that 
guard  could  not  see  you  ?  ' ' 

She  began  to  look  so  serious  again  that  I  merely 
added,  "never  mind,  I  don't  care  whether  you 
are  invisible  or  not,  dearest. ' ' 

' '  I  am  not  invisible  to  you, ' '  she  said  ;  ' '  why 
should  you  care  ?  ' ' 

A  great  noise  of  bells  and  whistles  drowned 
our  voices,  and  amid  the  whirring  of  switch  bells, 
the  hissing  of  steam,  and  the  cries  of  "  Paris  ! 
All  out  !  "  our  train  glided  into  the  station. 

It  was  the  Professor  who  opened  the  door  of 
our  carriage.  There  he  stood,  calmly  adjusting 
his  yellow  nightcap  and  drawing  his  dressing- 
gown  closer  with  the  corded  tassels. 

"  Where  have  you  been  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  On  the  engine." 

"In  the  engine  I  suppose  you  mean,"  I  said. 

"  No  I  don't ;  I  mean  on  the  engine, — on  the 
pilot.  It  was  very  refreshing.  Where  are  we 
going  now  ? ' ' 

"Do  you  know  Paris?"  asked  Klsie,  turning 
to  me. 


The  Man  at  the  Next  Table.       391 

"  Yes.  I  think  your  father  had  better  take 
you  to  the  Hotel  Normandie  on  the  rue  de 
1'Echelle— " 

* '  But  you  must  stay  there  too  ! ' ' 

' '  Of  course — if  you  wish — ' ' 

She  laughed  nervously. 

"  Don't  you  see  that  my  father  and  I  could  not 
take  rooms — now  ?  You  must  engage  three 
rooms  for  yourself. ' ' 

"  Why  ?  "  I  asked  stupidly. 

"  Oh  dear — why  because  we  are  invisible." 

I  tried  to  repress  a  shudder.  The  Professor 
gave  Elsie  his  arm  and,  as  I  studied  his  ensemble, 
I  thanked  Heaven  that  he  was  invisible. 

At  the  gate  of  the  station  I  hailed  a  four-seated 
cab,  and  we  rattled  away  through  the  stony 
streets,  brilliant  with  gas  jets,  and  in  a  few  mo 
ments  rolled  smoothly  across  the  Avenue  de 
1' Opera,  turned  into  the  rue  de  1'Echelle,  and 
stopped.  A  bright  little  page,  all  over  buttons, 
came  out,  took  my  luggage,  and  preceded  us 
into  the  hallway. 

I,  with  Elsie  on  my  arm  and  the  Professor 
shuffling  along  beside  me,  walked  over  to  the 
desk. 

"Room?"  said  the  clerk,  "we  have  a  very 
desirable  room  on  the  second  fronting  the  rue  St. 
Honore— " 

"  But  we — that  is  I  want  three  rooms — three 
separate  rooms  !  "  I  said. 

The  clerk  scratched  his  chin.  * '  Monsieur  is 
expecting  friends  ? ' ' 


392        The  Man  at  the  Next  Table. 

' 'Say  yes,"  whispered  Elsie,  with  a  suspicion 
of  laughter  in  her  voice. 

* '  Yes, ' '  I  repeated  feebly. 

"  Gentlemen  of  course?"  said  the  clerk  look 
ing  at  me  narrowly. 

"One  lady." 

"  Married,  of  course  ?  " 

"  What's  that  to  you?"  I  said  sharply,  "what 
do  you  mean  by  speaking  to  us — " 

"Us!" 

"  I  mean  to  me,"  I  said,  badly  rattled  ;  "  give 
me  the  rooms  and  let  me  get  to  bed,  will  you  ? ' ' 

* '  Monsieur  will  remember, ' '  said  the  clerk 
coldly,  "  that  this  is  an  old  and  respectable 
hotel." 

"  I  know  it,"  I  said,  smothering  my  rage. 

The  clerk  eyed  me  suspiciously. 

"Front!"  he  called  with  irritating  delibera 
tion,  "show  this  gentleman  to  apartment  ten." 

' '  How  many  rooms  are  there  !  "  I  demanded. 

"  Three  sleeping  rooms  and  a  parlor." 

"  I  will  take  it,"  I  said  with  composure. 

"  On  probation,"  muttered  the  clerk  insolently. 

Swallowing  the  insult  I  followed  the  bell-boy 
up  the  stairs,  keeping  between  him  and  Elsie,  for 
I  dreaded  to  see  him  walk  through  her  as  if  she 
were  thin  air.  A  trim  maid  rose  to  meet  us  and 
conducted  us  through  a  hallway  into  a  large 
apartment.  She  threw  open  all  the  bed-room 
doors  and  said,  "Will  Monsieur  have  the  good 
ness  to  choose?  " 


The  Man  at  the  Next  Table.       393 

"Which  will  you  take,"  I  began,  turning  to 
Elsie. 

"  I  !     Monsieur  !  "  cried  the  startled  maid. 

That  completely  upset  me.  ''Here,"  I  mut 
tered,  slipping  some  silver  into  her  hand,  "now 
for  the  love  of  Heaven  run  away  ! ' ' 

When  she  had  vanished  with  a  doubtful ' '  Merci, 
Monsieur,"  I  handed  the  Professor  the  keys  and 
asked  him  to  settle  the  thing  with  Elsie. 

Klsie  took  the  corner  room,  the  Professor  ram 
bled  into  the  next  one,  and  I  said  good  night  and 
crept  wearily  into  my  own  chamber.  I  sat  down 
and  tried  to  think.  A  great  feeling  of  fatigue 
weighted  my  spirits. 

"I  can  think  better  with  my  clothes  off,"  I 
said,  and  slipped  the  coat  from  my  shoulders. 
How  tired  I  was.  "  I  can  think  better  in  bed," 
I  muttered,  flinging  my  cravat  on  the  dresser  and 
tossing  my  shirt  studs  after  it.  I  was  certainly 
very  tired.  "Now,"  I  yawned,  grasping  the 
pillow  and  drawing  it  under  my  head,  "  now,  I 
can  think  a  bit,"  but  before  my  head  fell  on  the 
pillow,  sleep  closed  my  eyes. 

I  began  to  dream  at  once.  It  seemed  as  though 
my  eyes  were  wide  open  and  the  Professor  was 
standing  beside  my  bed. 

"Young  man,"  he  said,  "you've  won  my 
daughter  and  you  must  pay  the  piper  ! ' ' 

"What  piper?"  I  said. 

"The  pied  piper  of  Hamlin,  I  don't  think," 
replied  the  Professor  vulgarly,  and  before  I  could 


394        The  Man  at  the  Next  Table. 

realize  what  he  was  doing  he  had  drawn  a  reed 
pipe  from  his  dressing-gown  and  was  playing  a 
strangely  annoying  air.  Then  an  awful  thing 
occurred.  Cats  began  to  troop  into  the  room, 
cats  by  the  hundred,  toms  and  tabbys,  grey,  yel 
low,  Maltese,  Persian,  Manx,  all  purring  and  all 
marching  round  and  round,  rubbing  against  the 
furniture,  the  Professor,  and  even  against  me.  I 
struggled  with  the  nightmare. 

"  Take  them  away  !  "  I  tried  to  gasp. 

"  Nonsense,"  he  said,  "  here  is  an  old  friend." 

I  saw  the  white  tabby  cat  of  the  Hotel  St. 
Antoine. 

"An  old  friend,"  he  repeated,  and  played  a  dis 
mal  melody  on  his  reed. 

I  saw  Elsie  enter  the  room,  lift  the  white  tabby 
in  her  arms  and  bring  her  to  my  side. 

"  Shake  hands  with  him,"  she  commanded. 

To  my  horror  the  tabby  deliberately  extended 
a  paw  and  tapped  me  on  the  knuckles. 

"  Oh  !  "  I  cried  in  agony,  "  this  is  a  horrible 
dream  !  Why,  oh,  why  can't  I  wake  !  " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  dropping  the  cat,  "it  is 
partly  a  dream  but  some  of  it  is  real.  Remember 
what  I  say,  my  darling  ;  you  are  to  go  to-morrow 
morning  and  meet  the  twelve  o'clock  train  from 
Antwerp  at  the  Gare  du  Nord.  Papa  and  I  are 
coming  to  Paris  on  that  train.  Don't  you  know 
that  we  are  not  really  here  now,  you  silly  boy  ? 
Good  night  then.  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  see 
you." 


The  Man  at  the  Next  Table.       395 

I  saw  her  glide  from  the  room,  followed  by  the 
Professor,  playing  a  gay  quick-step,  to  which  the 
cats  danced  two  and  two. 

' '  Good  night  sir, ' '  said  each  cat,  as  it  passed 
my  bed  ;  and  I  dreamed  no  more. 

When  I  awoke,  the  room,  the  bed  had  vanished  ; 
I  was  in  the  street,  walking  rapidly  ;  the  sun 
shone  down  on  the  broad  white  pavements  of 
Paris,  and  the  streams  of  busy  life  flowed  past 
me  on  either  side.  How  swiftly  I  was  walking  ! 
Where  the  devil  was  I  going?  Surely  I  had 
business  somewhere  that  needed  immediate  atten 
tion.  I  tried  to  remember  when  I  had  awakened, 
but  I  could  not.  I  wondered  where  I  had  dressed 
myself ;  I  had  apparently  taken  great  pains  with 
my  toilet,  for  I  was  immaculate,  monocle  and  all, 
even  down  to  a  long-stemmed  rose  nestling  in 
my  button-hole.  I  knew  Paris  and  recognized 
the  streets  through  which  I  was  hurrying. 
Where  could  I  be  going  ?  What  was  my  hurry  ? 
I  glanced  at  my  watch  and  found  I  had  not  a 
moment  to  lose.  Then  as  the  bells  of  the  city 
rang  out  mid-day,  I  hastened  into  the  railroad 
station  on  the  Rue  I/afayette  and  walked  out 
to  the  platform.  And  as  I  looked  down  the 
glittering  track,  around  the  distant  curve  shot 
a  locomotive  followed  by  a  long  line  of  cars. 
Nearer  and  nearer  it  came  while  the  station  gongs 
sounded  and  the  switch-bells  began  ringing  all 
along  the  track. 

" Antwerp  express!"  cried  the  Sous- Chef  de 


396        The  Man  at  the  Next  Table. 

Gare,  and  as  the  train  slipped  along  the  tiled 
platform  I  sprang  upon  the  steps  of  a  first-class 
carriage  and  threw  open  the  door. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Kensett,"  said  Elsie 
Wyeth,  springing  lightly  to  the  platform.  "  Really 
it  is  very  nice  of  you  to  come  to  the  train."  At 
the  same  moment  a  bald,  mild-eyed  gentleman 
emerged  from  the  depths  of  the  same  compart 
ment  carrying  a  large  covered  basket. 

"  How  are  you,  Kensett?"  he  said.  "  Glad  to 
see  you  again.  Rather  warm  in  that  compart 
ment — no  I  will  not  trust  this  basket  to  an  ex 
pressman  ;  give  Miss  Wyeth  your  arm  and  I  '11 
follow.  We  go  to  the  '  Normandie '  I  believe  ? ' ' 

All  the  morning  I  had  Elsie  to  myself,  and  at 
dinner  I  sat  beside  her  with  the  Professor  opposite. 
The  latter  was  cheerful  enough,  but  he  nearly 
ruined  my  dinner  for  he  smelled  strongly  of  catnip. 
After  dinner  he  became  restless  and  fidgeted 
about  in  his  chair  until  coffee  was  brought,  and 
we  went  up  to  the  parlour  of  our  apartment. 
Here  his  restlessness  increased  to  such  an  extent 
that  I  ventured  to  ask  him  if  he  was  in  good  health. 

"  It 's  that  basket — the  covered  basket  which  I 
have  in  the  next  room,"  he  said. 

"What 's  the  trouble  with  the  basket?"  I  asked. 

"The  basket's  all  right— but  the  contents 
worry  me." 

"May  I  inquire  what  the  contents  are?"  I 
ventured. 

The  Professor  rose. 


The  Man  at  the  Next  Table.       397 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "you  may  inquire  of  iny 
daughter."  He  left  the  room  but  reappeared 
shortly,  carrying  a  saucer  of  milk. 

I  watched  him  enter  the  next  room  which  was 
mine. 

'  *  What  on  earth  is  he  taking  that  into  my 
roomfor?"  I  askedKlsie.  "I  don't  keep  cats." 

"  But  you  will,"  she  said. 

"I?  never!" 

"  You  will  if  I  ask  you  to." 

"  But — but  you  won't  ask  me." 

"But  I  do." 

"Elsie!  " 

"Harold!" 

"I  detest  cats." 

"You  must  not." 

"I  can't  help  it." 

"  You  will  when  I  ask  it.  Have  I  not  given 
myself  to  you?  Will  you  not  make  a  little 
sacrifice  for  me  ? ' ' 

"  I  don't  understand—" 

' '  Would  you  refuse  my  first  request  ?  ' ' 

"No,"  I  said  miserably,  "I  will  keep  dozens 
of  cats— " 

u  I  do  not  ask  that ;  I  only  wish  you  to  keep 
one. ' ' 

"Was  that  what  your  father  had  in  that 
basket?"  I  asked  suspiciously. 

"  Yes,  the  basket  came  from  Antwerp." 

"  What !     The  white  Antwerp  cat !  "  I  cried. 

"Yes." 


398        The  Man  at  the  Next  Table. 

1 '  And  you  ask  me  to  keep  that  cat  ?  Oh 
Elsie  !  " 

' '  lyisten  ! ' '  she  said,  ' '  I  have  a  long  story  to 
tell  you  ;  come  nearer,  close  to  me.  You  say  you 
love  me  ?  " 

I  bent  and  kissed  her. 

"Then  I  shall  put  you  to  the  proof,"  she 
murmured. 

"  Prove  me  !" 

"  lyisten.  That  cat  is  the  same  cat  that  ran  out 
of  the  apartment  in  the  Waldorf  when  your  great- 
aunt  ceased  to  exist — in  human  shape.  My 
father  and  myself,  having  received  word  from 
the  Mahatmas  of  the  Trust  Company,  sheltered 
and  cherished  the  cat.  We  were  ordered  by  the 
Mahatmas  to  convert  you.  The  task  was  appall 
ing — but  there  is  no  such  thing  as  refusing  a 
command,  and  we  laid  our  plans.  That  man 
with  a  white  spot  in  his  hair  was  my  father — ' ' 

' '  What !     Your  father  is  bald." 

"  He  wore  a  wig  then.  The  white  spot  came 
from  dropping  chemicals  on  the  wig  while  ex 
perimenting  with  a  substance  which  you  could 
not  comprehend." 

' '  Then — then  that  clue  was  useless  ;  but  who 
could  have  taken  the  Crimson  Diamond  ?  And 
who  was  the  man  with  the  white  spot  on  his 
head  who  tried  to  sell  the  stone  in  Paris? 

"  That  was  my  father." 

" He— he— st— took  the  Crimson  Diamond?  ! " 
I  cried  aghast. 


The  Man  at  the  Next  Table.       399 

"  Yes  and  no.  That  was  only  a  paste  stone 
that  he  had  in  Paris.  It  was  to  draw  you  over 
here.  He  had  the  real  Crimson  Diamond  also." 

"Your  father?" 

"Yes.  He  has  it  in  the  next  room  now. 
Can  you  not  see  how  it  disappeared,  Harold? 
Why,  the  cat  swallowed  it  !  " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  the  white  tabby  swal 
lowed  the  Crimson  Diamond  ?  ' ' 

"By  mistake.  She  tried  to  get  it  out  of  the 
velvet  bag,  and,  as  the  bag  was  also  full  of  catnip, 
she  could  not  resist  a  mouthful,  and  unfortunately 
just  then  you  broke  in  the  door  and  so  startled 
the  cat  that  she  swallowed  the  Crimson  Diamond." 

There  was  a  painful  pause.     At  last  I  said  ; 

"Elsie,  as  you  are  able  to  vanish,  I  suppose 
you  also  are  able  to  converse  with  cats." 

"  I  am,"  she  replied,  trying  to  keep  back  the 
tears  of  mortification. 

"  And  that  cat  told  you  this  ?  " 

"She  did." 

' '  And  my  Crimson  Diamond  is  inside  that 
cat?  " 

"It  is." 

"Then,"  said  I  firmly,  "  I  am  going  to  chloro 
form  the  cat. ' ' 

"Harold!"  she  cried  in  terror,  "that  cat  is 
your  great-aunt !  ' ' 

I  don't  know  to  this  day  how  I  stood  the  shock 
of  that  announcement,  or  how  I  managed  to 
listen,  while  Elsie  tried  to  explain  the  transmi- 


4OO        The  Man  at  the  Next  Table. 

gration  theory,  but  it  was  all  Chinese  to  me.  I 
only  knew  that  I  was  a  blood  relation  of  a  cat, 
and  the  thought  nearly  drove  me  mad. 

"  Try,  my  darling,  try  to  love  her,"  whispered 
Elsie,  "  she  must  be  very  precious  to  you — " 

"Yes,  with  my  diamond  inside  her,"  I  replied 
faintly. 

' '  You  must  not  neglect  her, ' '  said  Klsie. 

"  Oh  no,  I  '11  always  have  my  eye  on  her — I 
mean  I  will  surround  her  with  luxury — er,  milk 
and  bones  and  catnip  and  books — er — does  she 
read?" 

' '  Not  the  books  that  human  beings  read. 
Now  go  and  speak  to  your  aunt,  Harold." 

"Eh  !     How  the  deuce— " 

"  Go,  for  my  sake  try  to  be  cordial." 

She  rose  and  led  me  unresistingly  to  the  door 
of  my  room. 

' '  Good  Heavens  !  "  I  groaned,  * '  this  is  awful." 

"Courage,  my  darling!"  she  whispered, 
1 '  be  brave  for  love  of  me. ' ' 

I  drew  her  to  me  and  kissed  her.  Beads  of 
cold  perspiration  started  in  the  roots  of  my  hair, 
but  I  clenched  my  teeth  and  entered  the  room 
alone.  The  room  was  dark  and  I  stood  silent, 
not  knowing  where  to  turn,  fearful  lest  I  step  on 
the  cat,  my  aunt !  Then  through  the  dreary 
silence  I  called  ;  "  Aunty  !  " 

A  faint  noise  broke  upon  my  ear,  and  my  heart 
grew  sick,  but  I  strode  into  the  darkness  calling 
hoarsely  : — 


The  Man  at  the  Next  Table.       401 

' '  Aunt  Tabby  !  it  is  your  nephew  ! ' ' 

Again  the  faint  sound.  Something  was  stir 
ring  there  among  the  shadows, — a  shape  moving 
softly  along  the  wall,  a  shade  which  glided  by 
me,  paused,  wavered,  and  darted  under  the  bed. 
Then  I  threw  myself  on  the  floor,  profoundly 
moved,  begging,  imploring  my  aunt  to  come 
to  me. 

''Aunty!  Aunty!"  I  murmured,  "your 
nephew  is  waiting  to  take  you  to  his  heart  !" 

And  at  last  I  saw  my  great-aunt's  eyes,  shin 
ing  in  the  dark. 


Close  the  door.  That  meeting  is  not  for  the 
eyes  of  the  world  !  Close  the  door  upon  that 
sacred  scene  where  great-aunt  and  nephew  are 
united  at  last. 

THE  END. 


THREE  NOTABLE  BOOKS 


The  Red  Republic.  A  Romance  of  the  Commune.  By  ROBERT 
W.  CHAMBERS.  Tenth  edition.  12°  .  .  .  .  $1.25 

"With  all  its  rush  and  excitement  there  is  a  solid  basis  of  painstaking  and 
thoughtfulness  in  'The  Red  Republic.'  Mr.  Chambers  is  wholly  free  from  self- 
consciousness  ;  indeed  his  gifts  seem  to  be  little  short  of  genius.  Wonderfully 
vivid  and  graphic." — N.  Y.  Press. 

44  Mr.  Chambers  shows  great  familiarity  with  the  many  dreadful  days  of  1871, 
and  Mr.  Thiers'  policy  is  critically  examined.  '  The  Red  Republic '  abounds  in 
action."— TV.  Y.  Times. 

44  4  The  Red  Republic '  has  the  healthy  ring  of  a  young  man's  book.  Mr. 
Chambers  can  do  what  few  men  can  do,  he  can  tell  a  story." — N.  Y.  Journal. 

44  I  do  not  think  that  one  need  hesitate  to  call  4  The  Red  Republic'  the  best 
American  novel  of  the  year." — VANCE  THOMPSON  in  N.  Y.  Morning  Advertiser. 

"  The  book  will  commend  itself  not  only  for  its  strength  and  vividness,  but  for 
imagination  and  fancy.  .  .  .  Glow  with  gentle  beauty  and  romance,  putting 
in  striking  contrast  the  barbarity  of  war." — DROCH  in  N.  Y.  Life. 

A  King  and  a  Few  Dukes.  A  Romance.  By  ROBERT  W. 
CHAMBERS.  Sixth  edition.  12°  .  .  .  .  .  $1.25 

44  No  superior  fiction  has  appeared  in  months.  .  .  .  It  is  a  charming  love 
story,  attractively  told  in  a  way  that  is  essentially  Mr.  Chambers'  own."—  N.  Y. 
Times. 

44  A  more  charming,  wholly  delightful  story,  it  would  be  difficult  to  name  in  the 
whole  range  of  English  fiction.  That  is  saying  much,  but  not  one  bit  more  than 
the  book  deserves.  .  .  .  The  characters  are  wonderfully  well  drawn." — N.  Y. 
World. 

44  This  latest  of  Mr.  Chambers'  stories  is  written  in  a  very  charming  manner, 
and  with  all  the  grace  and  finish  that  have  made  the  writings  of  the  author  so 
popular  during  the  past." — Albany  Union. 

The  Maker  of  Moons.  By  ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS.  New  edition. 
12°,  gilt  top. $1.25 

44  Mr.  Chambers  writes  with  the  irresistible  fluent  vigor  that  characterizes  the 
born  story-teller.  .  .  .  His  stories  are  in  great  part  as  improbable  as  the 
famous  4  She'  by  Rider  Haggard,  but  the  reader  having  once  begun  it  is  impossi 
ble  for  him  not  to  continue  to  the  end.  In  the  present  volume  there  are  also  three 
stories  which,  on  a  basis  of  probability,  develop  a  series  of  incidents  illustrated 
with  humor  and  pathos  which  makes  them  distinctively  American." — Boston  Lit 
erary  World. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS,  New  York  and  London 


FICTION 


Sons  of  the  Morning 

By  EDEN  PHILLPOTTS,  author  of  "Children  of  the  Mist," 
etc.  With  frontispiece.  8°.  .  .  .  .  $1.50 
Special  Autograph  Edition,  limited  to  1000  copies,  neti.$Q 

"  Here  we  have  not  only  literature,  but  we  have  character-drawing, 
humor,  and  descriptive  powers  that  Blackmore  only  equalled  once,  and 
that  was  in  '  Lorna  Doone.'  .  .  .  He  knows  the  heart  as  well  as  the 
trees  ;  he  knows  men  and  women  as  well  as  he  knows  nature,  and  he  holds 
them  both  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand."  —  Chicago  Tribune. 


Hilda  Wade 

A  Woman  with  Tenacity  of  Purpose.  By  GRANT  ALLEN, 
author  of  "Miss  Cayley's  Adventures,"  etc.  With  98 
illustrations  by  Gordon  Browne.  8°  ...  $1.50 

"  Mr.  Allen's  text,  as  in  all  his  writings,  is  singularly  picturesque  and 
captivating.  There  are  no  commonplaces,  and,  although  the  outcome  is 
perfectly  evident  early  in  the  story,  the  reader  will  find  his  attention 
chained.  .  .  .  It  is  one  of  the  best  of  the  summer  books,  and  as  an 
artistic  bit  of  light  reading  ranks  high.  It  is  a  pity  that  such  a  vivid  im 
agination  and  high-bred  style  of  discourse  are  no  longer  in  the  land  of  the 
living  to  entertain  us  with  further  stories  of  adventure." — Boston  Times. 


The  Secret  of  the  Crater 

(A  Mountain  Moloch.)  By  DUFFIELD  OSBORNE,  author  of 
"  The  Spell  of  Ashtaroth,"  etc.  Hudson  Library,  No.  45. 
12°,  paper,  50  cts.  ;  cloth  *  $1.00 

"  The  author  is  a  novelist  with  a  genuine  gift  for  narrative.  He  knows 
how  to  tell  a  story,  and  he  is  capable  of  conceiving  a  plot  as  wild  as  was 
ever  imagined  by  Jules  Verne  or  Rider  Haggard.  .  .  .  The  reader 
will  find  himself  amused  and  interested  from  the  first  page  to  the  last." 
—N.  Y.  Herald. 


New  York  — G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS  — London 


FICTION. 

SMITH    BRUNT 

United  States  Navy.     By  WALDRON  K.  POST,  author 

of  "  Harvard  Stories,"  etc.     12°,  459  pages,  $1.50. 

"A  rattling  good  story  of  the  Old  Navy.  .  .  .  The  book 
recalls  Harry  Gringo  by  its  breadth  and  interest  of  plot ;  which 
means  it  is  a  first-class  sea  story.  It  is  not  an  imitation,  however. 
The  prevailing  thought  of  the  book  is  the  unity  of  aims, 
ideals  and  race  between  Englishmen  and  Americans,  and  this  idea  is 
brought  out  so  well  that,  even  though  the  reader  enjoys  the  story  of 
the  fierce  sea-fights,  he  deplores  the  shedding  of  blood  by  brothers' 
hands." — Buffalo  Express. 

BEARERS  OF  THE  BURDEN 

Being  Stories  of  Land  and   Sea.     By  Major  W.  P. 

DRURY,  Royal  Marines.     12°,  286  pages,  $1.00. 
"  Major  Drury's  stories  combine  pathos  and  humor  with  an  under 
lying  earnestness  that  betrays  a  clear  moral  vision.      The  whole 
volume  is  of  a  rare  and  wholesome  quality." — Chicago  Tribune. 

ROSALBA 

The  Story  of  Her  Development.  By  OLIVE  PRATT 
RAYNER  (Grant  Allen),  author  of  "  Flowers  and 
Their  Pedigrees,"  etc.  Hudson  Library,  No.  39. 
12°,  396  pages,  paper,  50  cts.  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"A  story  which  holds  the  reader  with  profound  interest  to  the 
closing  lines." — Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

ABOARD  «  THE  AMERICAN  DUCHESS  " 

By  HEADON  HILL.  Hudson  Library,  No.  41.  12°, 
paper,  50  cts.  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

NOTE.— This  is  a  reprint  of  a^work  previously  published  under  the  title  of 
"  Queen  of  the  Night " — with  certain  changes  of  names. 

*'  He  has  certainly  given  to  the  reading  public  a  capital  story  full 
of  action.  It  is  a  bright  novel  and  contains  many  admirable  chap 
ters.  Life  on  the  ocean  is  well  depicted,  many  exciting  episodes 
are  well  told,  and  it  will  interest  readers  of  all  classes." — Knoxmllc 
Sentinel. 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS,  NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 


THE  THINGS  THAT  COUNT 

Hudson  Library,  No.  43.  12°,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth, 
$1.00. 

In  her  well-known  graphic  style,  Miss  Tompkins  has  made  a  strong 
and  vivid  study  of  a  character  hitherto  not  delineated  in  American 
fiction.  Her  heroine  is  an  indolent  young  woman  of  small  means, 
who  lives  by  visiting  the  houses  of  wealthy  friends.  The  story  of  her 
regeneration  through  her  affection  for  a  man  of  strong  character  is 
cleverly  told. 

TALKS  WITH  BARBARA 

Being  an  Informal  and  Experimental  Discussion,  from 
the  Point  of  View  of  a  Young  Woman  of  To-morrow, 
of  Certain  of  the  Complexities  of  Life,  Particularly 
in  Regard  to  the  Relations  of  Men  and  Women. 
12°,  $1.50. 

"These  speculations  about  many  things  of  present  interest  are 
well  worth  reading,  for  they  are  bright,  original,  felicitously  set 
forth,  and,  above  all,  suggestive." — N.  Y.  Mail  and  Express. 

HER  MAJESTY 

A  Romance  of  To-Day.     Hudson  Library,  No.  6.     12°, 

paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  Nothing  was  ever  more  realistic  than  this  entirely  ideal  story, 

and  the  romance  is  as  artistic  as  the  realism The  story 

is  bright  and  full  of  life,  and  there  is  an  alertness  in  the  style  as 
charming  as  its  sympathy." — The  Evangelist. 

THE  BROKEN  RING 

Hudson  Library,  No.  15.  12°,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth, 
$1.00. 

"  A  romance  of  war  and  love  in  royal  life,  pleasantly  written  and 
cleverly  composed  for  melodramatic  effect  in  the  end." — Independent 


Q.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS,  New  York  and  London 


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